THE  ICE  PILOT 


BOOKS  BY  HENRY  LEVERAGE 

ICE  PILOT,  THE 

SHEPHERD  OF  THE  SEA,  THE 

WHERE  DEAD  MEN  WALK 

WHISPERING  WIRES 

WHITE  CIPHER,  THE 

ETC. 


"The  floes  through  which  Stirling  guided  the  ship  became 
larger  and  higher" 


THE  ICE  PILOT 

BY 
HENRY  LEVERAGE 


FRONTISPIECE    BY 
RUDOLPH    TANDLER 


GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y.,  AND  TORONTO 

DOUBLEDAY,   PAGE  &  COMPANY 
1921 


COPYRIGHT,    1921,  BY 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING   THAT   OF   TRANSLATION 
INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES,  INCLUDING  THE    SCANDINAVIAN 

COPYRIGHT,   1919,  BY  STREET  AND  SMITH   CORPORATION 


DEDICATED  TO 

THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  KARLUK 

SEASON   1897-8 


2136891 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  THE  COAST  OF  BARB ARY 3 

II.  ON  A  MAN'S  SEA 12 

III.  OVER  THE  QUARTER-DECK    ....  18 

IV.  ON  THE  SPARKLING  SEA 28 

V.  INTO  A  PURPLE  TWILIGHT     ....  36 

VI.  BY  THE  GREAT-CIRCLE  ROUTE   ...  41 

VII.  DRIFTERS  AND  DERELICTS     ....  48 

VIII.  ON  A  LOWER  BUNK 56 

IX.  THE  POLAR  BARRIER 65 

X.  To  THE  LAST  DAY 72 

XI.  BENEATH  THE  SURFACE         ....  79 

XII.  THE  MANNER  OF  MAN 88 

XIII.  INTO  THE  ICE 96 

XIV.  A  WHISPERED  WARNING 103 

XV.  OUT  OF  THE  PORTHOLE    .     .     .     .     .  112 

XVI.  FROM  His  POCKET 122 

XVII.  INTO  FORBIDDEN  WATERS     ....  127 

XVIII.  WITH  THE  SPEED  OF  WIND    ....  137 

XIX.  A  TOAST  FROM  MARR 150 

vii 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PACE 

XX.  THE  MOVING  SHADOWS 159 

XXI.  THROUGH  THE  PORTHOLE      .     .     .     .  170 

XXII.  ALONE  IN  THE  CABIN 176 

XXIII.  OVER  THE  STERN 184 

XXIV.  BEFORE  THE  WHEEL 191 

XXV.  IN  THE  GRIP  OF  THE  UNKNOWN       .     .  195 

XXVI.  IN  THE  SUDDEN  DARKNESS         .     .     .  208 

XXVII.  IN  THE  PIT 212 

XXVIII.  THE  THIRD  DOOR 217 

XXIX.  To  SEE  IT  THROUGH 229 

XXX.  IN  SWIFT  SALUTE 235 

XXXI.  DANGER  AND  DOUBT 244 

XXXII.  To  THE  LAST  DAY 248 

XXXIII.  A  GRIM  WARNING 256 

XXXIV.  THROUGH  THE  DRIVING  SNOW    .     .     .  268 
XXXV.  A  MATTER  OF  MINUTES 277 

XXXVI.  ACROSS  THE  CABIN 283 

XXXVII.  THE  CALLING  BEACON 290 


viii 


THE  ICE  PILOT 


THE   ICE   PILOT 

CHAPTER  I 

THE    COAST   OF    BARBARY 

IT  WAS  raining  in  San  Francisco. 
Over  that  Bagdad  of  the  West  a  thin  drizzling 
mist  swept  like  some  fine  seiner's  net;  over  the 
Bay  a  fog  hung. 

A  man  stood  alone  on  the  crest  of  Telegraph  Hill. 
Below  him  the  city  stretched  with  its  square-checked 
habitations;  its  long,  blurred  lanes  of  lights;  its  trolley 
cars  creeping  like  glow-worms  up  and  down  the 
slippery  inclines. 

That  evening  the  man  had  watched  the  sun  go 
down  in  yellow  splendour.  He  had  seen  the  shadow 
of  night  chase  the  sunlight  in  a  mad  frolic  beyond 
the  edge  of  the  world.  He  had  noted — for  his 
eyes  were  sharp — the  fore-topsail  of  a  windjammer 
cut  a  square  nick  out  of  the  horizon,  and  come 
like  a  scared  white  thing  through  the  Golden 
Gate. 

Directly  below  the  man  a  house,  which  was  perched 
on  the  declivity,  seemed  to  burst  with  drunken  mirth 
and  laughter.  A  woman's  voice  swung  in  tune  with 

3 


4  THE  ICE  PILOT 

a  tinkling  piano.     She  sang  an  old   chantey  that 
whalers  know: 

'"Rah  for  the  grog — 
The  jolly,  jolly  grog. 
'Rah  for  the  grog  and  tobacco. 
We've  spent  all  our  tin  with  the  ladies,  drinking  gin, 
And  across  the  briny  ocean  we  must  wan — der — 

The  man  shrugged  his  shoulders,  clinked  two  silver 
coins  together,  and  descended  the  hill  to  the  Blubber 
Room,  from  whence  the  song  had  come. 

The  piano  drummed  out  a  noisy  welcome  when  he 
opened  and  closed  the  door. 

He  took  a  seat  at  a  table,  removed  his  cap  from  his 
gray-sprinkled  head,  leaned  back,  and  looked  around 
the  smoky  interior  of  the  Blubber  Room.  The 
figures  of  old  salts,  crimps,  half-pay  officers,  and  one 
square-jawed  sailor  loomed  through  the  fetid  air. 
A  woman  with  carmined  lips  and  a  thin  blue  neck 
stood  by  a  youth  who  played  the  piano. 

It  was  all  familiar  to  Stirling — known  from  the 
Clyde  to  the  Golden  Horn  as  Horace  Stirling,  the 
Ice  Pilot.  He  had  been  in  such  dives  before.  He 
knew  Number  Nine,  Yokohama,  and  the  Silver 
Dollar  at  Manila. 

Stirling  had  struck  hard  luck,  chicken  farming 
over  Oakland  way.  His  chickens  died  as  sailors 
die  of  scurvy  at  Herschel  Island,  and  he  wanted  to 
quit  the  shore. 

The  sea  and  the  Arctic  called,  and  he  had  little 


THE  COAST  OF  BARBARY  5 

money  left.  There  was  a  chance  for  adventure  in 
the  Blubber  Room  that  night;  rumour  had  it  that  a 
ship  was  outfitting  for  a  passage  to  East  Cape, 
Siberia,  and  the  unknown  land  around  the  Pole. 

Stirling  possessed  a  countenance  stamped  with  the 
seal  of  misfortune — a  face  with  which  destiny  loves 
to  toy,  the  face  of  a  rover  and  a  castaway,  yet  withal, 
a  strong  face  which  would  remain  strong  to  the  very 
end. 

His  eyes  were  dark  brown  and  wide-set.  His 
nose  was  long  and  divided  full ;  round  cheeks  blood- 
veined  to  a  purplish  tinge  that  spoke  not  only  of  wind 
and  weather,  of  the  sea  and  brine,  but  also  of  the 
lees  and  dregs  of  a  wanderer's  life. 

The  figure  of  him,  sitting  at  the  table,  seemed 
blocked  from  sturdy  oak. 

He  eyed  the  patrons  of  the  Blubber  Room  and  con- 
cluded that  the  adventure  he  sought  for  was  far 
away  from  that  noisy,  smoke-filled  dive.  There  was 
but  one  occupant  who  looked  capable  of  a  desperate 
enterprise — the  sailor — and  this  man  sat  hunched 
in  a  chair  as  if  he  had  been  drinking  heavily  of  tem- 
perance-time alcohol. 

Stirling  studied  the  sailor's  face  and  found  lines  in 
it  which  were  slightly  familiar.  It  brought  to  his 
mind  the  Revenue  Service  and  a  second  lieutenant 
whom  he  had  met  off  the  Little  Diomede  Island  in 
Bering  Strait. 

Turning  from  his  scrutiny  of  the  sailor,  Stirling 
looked  at  the  door  of  the  Blubber  Room  through 


6  THE  ICE  PILOT 

which  two  men  stepped  who  would  have  attracted 
attention  anywhere. 

These  men,  glistening  from  the  rain,  took  seats  at 
a  table  and  called  for  a  bottle  of  light  wine.  One 
man  was  a  Yankee,  by  his  nasal  undertones  and 
tobacco-stained  goatee.  The  other  man  was  half 
the  weight  of  the  first,  thin,  alert,  with  a  well- 
trimmed  Vandyke  beard  over  which  glittered  a 
pair  of  eyes  that  resembled  gimlets  in  their  pointed 
intensity. 

Upon  both  of  these  men  lay  the  badge  of  the  sea— 
in  their  gestures,  their  pea-jackets,  and  their  pecu- 
liar habit  of  always  leaning  against  something, 
which  is  acquired  on  decks  of  ships. 

Stirling  studied  these  men,  watched  them  drink 
the  wine,  and  saw  that  they  had  fallen  under  the 
hidden  observation  of  the  sailor  who  resembled  a 
second  lieutenant  of  the  Revenue  Service. 

The  Ice  Pilot  sensed  adventure.  He  also  ordered 
a  bottle  of  light  wine,  and  paid  for  it  with  his  last 
dollar.  He  sipped  the  liquid  slowly,  pretended  to 
be  interested  in  the  woman  at  the  piano,  and  waited 
for  something  to  happen. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait. 

The  two  seamen  rose  from  their  table,  tossed  down 
coins,  glanced  meaningly  toward  the  woman  at  the 
piano  and  the  waiter  who  had  served  them  wine,  and 
went  out  from  the  Blubber  Room. 

Stirling  looked  at  the  sailor,  who  half-lifted  him- 
self from  his  chair,  thought  better  of  the  action, 


THE  COAST  OF  BARBARY  7 

dropped  back,  thrust  his  elbows  on  the  table,  and 
buried  his  face  in  his  palms. 

The  woman's  song  rose  and  fell  in  the  heated  air, 
while  the  lamps  flickered  and  almost  went  out.  The 
piano's  tinkling  notes  settled  to  a  shrill  tune  that  was 
a  signal. 

There  followed  swifter  than  Stirling  could  make 
note  of  the  events,  an  oath  from  the  waiter,  a  curse 
upon  somebody,  a  loud  banging  of  the  piano,  and  a 
woman's  penetrating  scream. 

A  chair,  a  cuspidor,  and  part  of  a  table  hurtled 
across  the  Blubber  Room;  bottles  struck  the  walls; 
the  light  went  out  when  the  lamps  fell  in  a  thousand 
pieces  to  the  floor. 

Stirling  overturned  his  table,  stumbled  through 
the  gloom,  tripped  over  a  body,  went  down  on  all 
fours,  and  crawled  to  the  door.  He  raised  himself 
and  attempted  to  turn  the  knob,  but  it  would  not 
budge.  He  heard  behind  him  the  shrieks  of  the 
woman  and  the  thud  of  many  blows,  then,  after  a 
minute's  uproar,  a  match  was  lighted,  shielded  in  a 
red  palm,  and  its  rays  directed  downward  to  the 
sawdust  floor. 

The  Ice  Pilot  felt  his  heart  throb  in  his  staunch 
body.  The  woman,  who  had  stood  by  the  piano, 
lay  face  upward  with  the  hilt  of  a  seaman's  knife 
protruding  from  her  breast;  carmine  stained  her 
neck  and  waist. 

"Watch  th'  door  an'  windows!"  a  seaman  cried. 
"Somebody's  gone  an'  croaked  Thedessa." 


8  THE  ICE  PILOT 

Accusing  eyes  glowed  in  the  match's!  yellow  light, 
and  the  Ice  Pilot  felt  that  he  was  the  centre  of  sus- 
picion. A  hand  was  raised  and  a  long  finger  pointed 
toward  him. 

He  waited  until  someone  lighted  the  wick  of  a 
smashed  lamp,  then  stepping  from  the  locked  door 
he  went  to  the  woman  and  knelt  by  her  side.  Ris- 
ing, he  said,  "  I  didn't  kill  her.  I  think  the  piano- 
player  did." 

"Maybe  she  ain't  dead,"  said  a  voice  that  Stirling 
recognized  as  coming  from  the  sailor. 

The  waiter  took  off  his  apron,  closed  one  eye 
craftily,  and,  after  a  brutal  laugh  and  a  sharp  glance 
around  the  circle  of  seaman,  exclaimed: 

"Aw,  nobody  killed  her — she  just  fell  on  th' 
knife!" 

Stirling  sought  for  the  piano-player  who  had 
vanished.  He  square-set  his  shoulders,  clenched  his 
fists,  and  cleared  his  throat. 

"I'll  go  for  the  police,"  he  said. 

The  waiter  and  a  seaman  grasped  his  sturdy  arms. 
"Hoi' on,"  they  urged. 

"Why  should  I  hold  on?" 

The  waiter  eyed  the  woman  on  the  floor. 

"She's  dead.  Nobody  knows  who  killed  her. 
Let's  all  help  carry  th'  body  out  to  Meigg's  Wharf 
an'  set  her  afloat." 

Stirling  shook  his  head.  He  heard  behind  him  the 
soft  step  of  the  piano-player  who  came  from  a  door 
set  near  the  piano. 


THE  COAST  OF  BARBARY  9 

"  I'll  swing  for  it,"  he  said  to  the  Ice  Pilot,  a  whine 
in  his  voice.  "  Help  me  out  of  th'  mess,  matey.  Let's 
set  Thedessa  adrift — she  always  wanted  to  float  out 
to  sea  that  way." 

Stirling  felt  an  urging  glance  from  the  sailor  who 
resembled  the  second-lieutenant.  He  moved  to  this 
man's  side  and  was  going  to  question  him  when  the 
wick  of  the  lamp  sputtered  and  went  out. 

Another  wick  was  lighted  and  this  was  thrust  in 
the  mouth  of  a  wine  bottle,  where  it  flared  like  a 
torch  at  sea. 

"What  d'ye  say?"  questioned  the  piano-player. 
"What  does  everybody  say?  Th'  police  will  pinch 
us  all  for  th'  murder  an'  keep  us  in  jail  for  weeks." 

"You  knifed  that  woman!"  declared  Stirling. 

The  piano-player  blinked  his  pale  lashes,  then 
went  to  the  door,  drew  a  key  from  his  pocket,  and 
threw  back  the  bolt  of  the  lock.  He  looked  out  into 
the  vale  of  mist  and  fog  that  stretched  from  Tele- 
graph Hill  to  the  waters  of  the  Bay. 

"Who'll  help  me  carry  Thedessa?"  he  queried. 

A  crimp,  the  waiter,  and  one  or  two  seamen  offered 
their  services.  Stirling  hesitated,  but  again  he  felt 
the  urge  from  the  second-lieutenant,  and  agreed  by 
nodding  his  head. 

The  piano-player,  who  knew  the  path,  led  the 
way  with  the  woman's  feet  under  his  arm,  the  waiter 
and  a  seaman  supporting  Thedessa's  head.  Stirling 
and  the  sailor  brought  up  the  rear. 

"My  name  is  Eagan,"  said  the  sailor.     "We'll 


io  THE  ICE  PILOT 

go  along  and  see  what  happens.  It's  th'  best  way 
out  of  a  nasty  jam." 

"  Were  you  in  the  Bering  Strait  three  seasons  ago?" 

Eagan  shook  his  head,  clutched  Stirling's  arm,  and 
guided  him  after  the  trio  who  had  carried  the  woman 
out  upon  Meigg's  Wharf  and  were  lowering  her  into 
a  Whitehall  boat. 

"No,"  he  said  to  Stirling.  "But  I  got  something 
to  say  to  you — after  awhile.  Something  important." 

The  Ice  Pilot  hesitated  on  the  stringer-piece  of 
the  wharf  and  looked  toward  the  fog-covered  Bay, 
but  again  Eagan  guided  him  on.  They  seized  hold 
of  a  painter  that  was  hitched  to  a  cleat,  descended 
to  the  Whitehall  boat,  and  cast  loose  from  the  wharf. 

Thedessa  lay  in  the  stern  of  the  boat  where  the 
piano-player  and  waiter  sat  with  their  heads  close 
together.  A  seaman  rowed  skilfully,  and  the  sharp- 
prowed  boat  cut  through  the  short  waves,  swung, 
steadied,  and  made  toward  a  dark  mass  on  the  sur- 
face of  San  Francisco  Bay. 

Stirling  suddenly  felt  water  around  his  boots.  He 
glanced  down  and  lifted  his  feet.  He  heard  a  cry 
from  the  piano-player. 

"We're  sinking!    There's  no  plug  in  this  boat!" 

Eagan  attempted  to  find  the  plug-hole.  He  rose 
with  his  hands  dripping  bilge  muck.  The  man  at  the 
oars  dug  the  blades  deep  into  the  bay,  bent  his  back, 
and  dug  again  as  if  his  life  were  at  stake. 

Stirling  climbed  into  the  bow  of  the  boat,  stared 
through  the  fog,  and  heard  a  ship's  bell  striking.  He 


THE  COAST  OF  BARBARY  n 

motioned  for  the  oarsman  to  row  in  that  direction, 
and  the  light  craft  steadied  upon  the  dark  mass. 

Reaching  upward,  the  Ice  Pilot  warded  off  the 
boat  and  grasped  a  dangling  line  that  ran  over  a 
ship's  rail  at  the  waist.  He  nudged  Eagan  and  went 
hand-over-hand  upward  until  one  palm  hooked  the 
rail,  then  he  turned  his  head  and  looked  at  the  boat. 

The  piano-player,  the  waiter,  and  the  woman- 
all  three  very  much  alive — were  standing  on  the 
thwarts.  Eagan  and  the  other  seamen  had  found 
lines  up  which  they  were  climbing. 

Stirling  saw  the  woman  draw  a  bent  knife  from  her 
breast,  toss  it  overboard,  and  wring  the  water  from 
her  skirts. 

He  heard  her  mocking  song  as  the  Whitehall  boat 
merged  in  the  fog,  and  finally  was  gone  back  toward 
Meigg's  Wharf  and  the  Blubber  Room: 

"  It's  'rah  for  th'  grog — 
Th'  jolly,  jolly  grog! 
It's  'rah  for  th'  grog  an'  tobacco! 
For  you've  spent  all  your  tin  with  th'  ladies,  drinkin'  gin, 
An'  across  th'  brimy  ocean  you  must  wan — der " 


CHAPTER  II 
ON  A  MAN'S  SEA 

BREATHING  the  invigorating  night  air,  Hor- 
ace Stirling  climbed  over  the  ship's  rail, 
squared  his  shoulders,  and  started  toward  the 
poop  steps.  The  consciousness  that  he  had  been 
shanghaied  came  to  him;  the  sensation  was  a  novel 
one. 

He  reached  the  weather  steps.  There  he  paused 
and  swung,  facing  the  after  part  of  the  ship.  A 
group  of  seamen  were  gathered  in  the  waist.  They 
were  receiving  the  shanghaied  sailors  who  had  been 
brought  out  in  the  Whitehall  boat. 

Stirling  gathered  in  the  details  of  the  whaler  and 
his  jaw  dropped  in  wonder,  while  his 'eyes  softened 
with  an  appreciative  glow.  He  had  never  sailed  or 
steamed  upon  such  a  ship.  She  was  complete  and 
yachtlike,  and  her  deck  house  extended  fore  and  aft 
between  the  main  and  mizzenmast.  It  was  such  a 
cabin  as  one  would  expect  to  find  on  a  government 
revenue  cutter.  A  squat,  drab  funnel  reared  from 
a  boat  deck,  and  glowed  through  the  mist  like  the 
end  of  a  fat  cigar. 

Stirling  turned  and  mounted  the  poop,  to  face  two 
of  the  men  with  whom  he  had  drunk  in  that  tavern 


ON  A  MAN'S  SEA  13 

near  the  wharves.  One  thrust  out  a  hamlike  hand. 
"  Remember  me?"  he  said,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes. 
"I'm  Cushner  who  took  the  Anderson  expedition 
to  the  mouth  of  the  Lena  River.  You  were  ice  pilot 
of  the  Northern  Lights  that  season.  You  gammed 
us  in  Bering  Strait.  Remember?" 

Stirling  stared  up  into  the  big  seaman's  face, 
squinting  his  eyes  in  an  attempt  to  recall  a  vague 
memory.  Slowly  the  details  of  the  Anderson  ex- 
pedition came  back  to  him. 

"You're  Cushner!"  he  blurted  out.  "By  the 
jumpin'  bowheads,  you  are!  Who's  the  little  fel- 
low?" Stirling  motioned  toward  the  second  seaman 
who  had  descended  the  lee  poop  steps  and  started 
forward  to  where  a  knot  of  men  were  gathered  about 
the  corner  of  the  deck  house. 

The  big  mate  of  the  ship  leaned  over  the  quarter- 
deck rail  and  said:  "He's  Marr — Captain  Marr  of 
the  Baffin  Bay  crowd.  See,  he's  mixin'  with  th* 
men.  No  man  leaves  this  ship,  but  you,  out  of  the 
bunch.  Sailors  are  scarce  as  bowheads  in  the  west- 
ern ocean  these  days." 

"  Do  you  need  a  pilot?" 

"We  certainly  do !    You  can  come  if  you  want  to." 

"How  about  this  ship?" 

"She's  the  Pole  Star.  She  once  was  called  the 
Alexander.  She  was  a  Russian  yacht.  She's  fitted 
out  for  whaling  and  trading.  Good  food  and  all 
that.  The  old  man  will  be  glad  to  sign  you  on  a  big 
lay.  We're  going  right  up  in  the  ice." 


I4  THE  ICE  PILOT 

"Who'll  be  the  afterguard?" 

"Well,  you'll  make  one  if  you  join  us.  There's 
Marr  and  Whitehouse,  who  just  came  by  rail.  That 
puts  me  back  to  second  mate.  Then  there's  San- 
derson and  Manley — third  and  fourth.  Besides, 
there's  Maddox  and  Baldwin  of  the  engine-room 
force.  It's  a  good  outfit.  Fair  play  and  money  to 
be  had." 

Stirling  rubbed  his  nose,  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  rig- 
ging, squared  his  shoulders,  and  turned  toward 
Cushner.  "How  about  all  this?"  he  asked  with  a 
wide  sweep  of  his  arm.  "  Kind  of  queer,  eh?" 

"Well,  no,"  drawled  the  big  mate,  tugging  at  his 
long  beard.  "No;  not  that  I  know  of,  Stirling. 
Everything's  on  deck  as  far  as  I  can  see.  The  old 
man  is  a  part  owner — it's  a  private  venture.  He  and 
Whitehouse  know  their  business.  Just  keep  your 
tongue  spliced  and  say  nothing.  The  old  man  will 
be  in  the  cabin  at  six  bells.  We'll  talk  to  him  then; 
if  you  want  to  go  ashore,  you  can.  If  you  stay,  I'll 
promise  you  some  fair  game  on  a  man's  sea." 

Stirling  took  a  turn  about  the  quarter-deck  of  the 
Pole  Star,  then  came  back  to  the  rail  and  leaned  over. 
Marr  had  disappeared. 

A  bell  struck  over  the  misted  waters  of  the  city, 
and  was  followed  by  others.  A  roar  sounded  to  the 
westward,  where  the  surf  beat  upon  Seal  Rocks  and 
the  entrance  to  the  harbour.  A  salty  gust  stirred  the 
standing  rigging  of  the  ship,  and  it  filled  the  Ice  Pilot's 
lungs  with  remembered  calling.  He  braced  his 


ON  A  MAN'S  SEA  15 

shoulders,  lifted  his  head,  and  felt  like  a  man  who  has 
shaken  off  a  bad  dream.  He  was  going  North  again, 
on  a  good  ship  with  a  staunch  crew. 

Stirling  turned  toward  the  big  mate,  who  stood 
under  the  shadow  of  a  long,  white  whaleboat.  "I'll 
join,"  the  Ice  Pilot  said,  simply.  "Let's  go  below 
and  see  Marr.  It's  six  bells  and  more.  Like  as 
not  he  and  I  can  get  along.  I  ain't  a  hard  man  to 
please.  Only,  this  has  got  to  be  an  honest  voyage. 
I  ain't  in  for  anything  downright  crooked.  It  ain't 
my  nature!" 

"Mine,  neither,"  said  Cushner.     "Come  on!" 

Stirling  followed  the  second  mate  across  the  deck 
to  an  ornate  companion  close  by  the  taffrail,  and 
they  descended  by  turning,  in  the  manner  of  seamen 
the  world  over.  Stirling  removed  his  cap  and  stood 
rooted  in  the  doorframe  as  his  eyes  gathered  in  the 
details  of  the  cabin! 

A  soft  electric  cluster  shone  overhead,  and  walls 
and  bulkheads  were  hung  with  draperies.  The  deck 
was  covered  with  Persian  carpets,  while  here  and 
there — scattered  in  haphazard  fashion — gleamed  the 
tawny  yellow  pelts  of  wild  animals. 

Athwart  the  ship,  from  inner  skin  to  inner  skin, 
the  cabin  extended,  with  staterooms  fore  and  aft 
of  the  companion  stairway.  The  round  portholes, 
covered  with  silken  curtains,  alone  remained  to  tell 
that  the  room  was  upon  a  ship. 

Stirling  blinked  his  eyes,  then  opened  them  wide 
and  drank  in  the  details  of  wealth  and  luxury.  He 


16  THE  ICE  PILOT 

stared  at  shelves  of  morocco-bound  books,  their  titles 
stamped  in  gold;  he  noted  a  baby-grand  piano — the 
first  he  had  ever  seen — lashed  with  silken  cords  to  the 
after  bulkhead.  Upon  it  music  lay  in  well-bound 
sheaths. 

Cushner  advanced  and  gripped  the  Ice  Pilot's 
elbow.  "Come  on,"  he  whispered,  pointing  toward 
an  alcove  between  two  bookcases.  "The  captain  is 
sitting  there." 

Half  hidden  by  a  portiere,  stretched  three  quarter 
length  upon  a  divan,  Marr  reclined,  deep  in  a  book 
of  modern  verse.  He  lifted  his  legs  and  dropped 
them  to  the  deck,  laid  the  book  down,  and  rose  with 
a  quick  thrust  of  his  hand  toward  Stirling.  "  Be 
seated,"  he  said,  clasping  the  Ice  Pilot's  hand  with 
a  nervous  grip  then  indicating  a  long,  cushioned 
seat. 

Stirling  followed  the  second  mate's  example  and 
sat  down  on  the  nearest  cushion,  stretching  out  his 
long  legs,  hitching  up  his  trousers,  and  fingering  his 
cap.  He  raised  his  chin  and  met  Marr's  eyes, 
studying  the  clean-cut  nostrils  of  the  little  captain.  He 
gauged  the  mentality  of  the  man,  and  thrashed- the 
events  of  the  night  over  in  his  mind  as  he  held  a 
steady  poise. 

"This  is  Horace  Stirling!"  blurted  out  Cushner, 
with  a  voice  like  a  bull.  "He's  the  best  all-around 
whaler  and  ice  pilot  in  the  game.  I  didn't  recognize 
him  in  that  room  in  Frisco.  We  landed  a  bigger  fish 
than  we  thought.  I  reckon  he  can  go  ashore  if  he 


ON  A  MAN'S  SEA  17 

wants  to.  We  can't  keep  him  unless  he  wants  to 
stay." 

"How  about  it?"  asked  Marr. 

Stirling  fingered  his  cap,  but  he  had  already  made 
up  his  mind.  The  ship  suited  him,  Cushner  was  a 
good  mate,  and  the  North  called  with  all  the  strength 
of  the  wide  places. 

"I'll  sign  on,"  he  said,  simply.  "Like  as  not  I 
couldn't  do  better.  I  don't  like  the  way  you  shipped 
part  of  your  crew;  outside  of  that,  this  suits  me,  if 
it's  honest." 

"The  crew,"  said  Marr,  softly,  "was  a  serious  prob- 
lem. I  wanted  a  few  more  men,  and  just  at  the  time 
I  saw  no  other  way  to  get  them  than  by  straight, 
old-time  shanghaing.  1 1  worked ! " 


CHAPTER  III 

OVER  THE   QUARTER-DECK 

THE  Ice  Pilot  placed  the  captain  as  he  listened 
to  the  apology — Marr  was  of  a  nature  to  brook 
no  excuse.  He  had  determined  upon  sailing  the 
Pole  Star  for  a  voyage  of  discovery  and  profit,  and 
he  had  acted  outside  the  law  in  order  to  obtain  a  crew. 
This  was  not  unusual  upon  the  Coast  of  Barbary. 
Stirling,  as  honest  as  a  dollar,  had  seen  the  same 
method  employed  before,  and  he  puzzled  his  brain 
for  a  deeper  motive,  which  might  be  behind  the  little 
skipper's  steel-gray  eyes. 

There  seemed  no  fathoming  the  beard-hidden  face 
of  the  captain,  and  Stirling  leaned  back,  dropping 
his  eyes  to  the  rug  at  his  feet,  where  he  studied  the 
polished  points  of  his  shore  boots. 

"We  go  with  the  tide  at  sunup,"  said  Marr.  "This 
is  the  reason,  and  the  only  one,  that  we  took  matters 
in  our  own  hands  and  obtained  a  complete  crew. 
Whalers  must  have  a  bad  odour  in  these  waters,  from 
all  indications." 

Stirling  glanced  up.     He  nodded. 

"We  go  North,"  continued  Marr,  rubbing  his 
hands  together.  "North,  for  a  season  of  seven 
months,  to  whale!  Mr.  Cushner  knows  who  I  am. 

18 


OVER  THE  QUARTER-DECK  19 

The  mate,  Mr.  Whitehouse,  is  ashore.  He'll  be  out 
very  soon,  and  he'll  attest  to  my  financial  responsi- 
bility. Roth  &  Co.  have  outfitted  the  Pole  Star. 
They  know  me!  I'll  take  Mr.  Cushner's  word  that 
you  are  a  first-class  ice  pilot.  You  sign  on  with  me 
and  I'll  see  that  you  get  a  thousand  dollars  in  minted 
gold  when  we  drop  anchor  at  Frisco.  In  addition 
to  that  bonus,  I'll  give  you  the  lay  of  the  mate — a 
one-twenty-fifth  of  the  proceeds  of  the  voyage.  Is 
that  satisfactory?" 

Stirling  considered  the  figures  mentioned.  The 
amount  was  at  least  a  captain's  share  in  the  old  days 
of  whaling. 

"That's  handsome  enough,  captain,"  he  said. 
"That  suits  me.  But  one  thing — I'm  plain  spoken — 
is  this  ship  going  whaling,  or  something  else?  I 
want  to  know." 

Marr  smiled  pleasantly.  "Why  did  you  ask?" 
he  said,  stroking  his  Vandyke  beard  with  slender 
fingers. 

"Only  to  know.  You  see,  I  can  go  ashore  and  sign 
on  with  one  of  Larribee's  ships.  Larribee  knows  me. 
I  brought  in  many  a  head  of  bone  for  him." 

"And  you'll  do  the  same  for  me!"  exclaimed  Marr, 
resting  his  hand  on  Stirling's  shoulder.  "Sign  on 
and  I'll  promise  you  that  there  will  be  no  regrets. 
All's  honest  and  aboveboard.  Whitehouse — Mr. 
Whitehouse  is  an  English  gentleman.  He  talks 
like  a  cockney,  but  that  is  an  affliction.  You'll  get 
along  with  him.  He's  new  to  the  Bering." 


20  THE  ICE  PILOT 

"I'll  sign!"  said  Stirling,  rising.  "I'll  have  to 
get  my  dunnage  bag.  It's  at  Antone's,  down  by 
the  ferry." 

"We'll  tend  to  that!" 

Stirling  turned  toward  Cushner.  "Have  you  en- 
tirely outfitted?"  he  asked,  professionally.  "Got  all 
of  your  whaling  gear  aboard?" 

"We  have!  Six  boats!  A  forehold  chockablock 
and  whale  line  and  irons.  Papers,  everything,  all 
right  to  clear.  Some  of  the  crew  have  been  North 
before.  The  rest  can  learn.  You  and  I  can  tend 
to  that,  eh?" 

Stirling  swept  the  cabin  comprehensively.  "Too 
fine  a  ship  to  buck  the  old  floes  with,"  he  said,  glanc- 
ing down  at  the  skipper. 

"Nothing  too  fine  for  the  North!"  exclaimed 
Marr.  "Write  me  out  an  order  for  your  bag.  I'll 
send  Snowball,  my  cabin  boy,  with  the  dinghy." 

Stirling  scribbled  an  order  on  the  back  of  a  shipping 
master's  card.  He  passed  it  over  to  Marr,  who 
touched  a  button  at  the  end  of  the  piano.  A  negro, 
sleepy-eyed  and  curious,  thrust  a  kinky  head  through 
an  after  doorway. 

Marr  stepped  over  the  rugs  and  whispered  his 
instructions.  Stirling,  whose  ears  were  sharp,  caught 
a  command  to  wait  on  shore  for  somebody.  This 
order  was  repeated. 

The  negro  vanished,  and  Marr  paced  athwart  the 
ship.  Wheeling  suddenly,  he  listened  with  his  ear 
cocked  toward  the  deck  beams.  A  shuffling  of  feet 


OVER  THE  QUARTER-DECK  21 

sounded  overhead  as  men  sprang  down  from  the  rail. 
The  bell  in  the  wheelhouse  struck  seven  times.  It 
was  echoed  from  forward. 

"That's  Whitehouse!"  said  the  captain.  "We'll  all 
have  a  drink!" 

The  slide  to  the  deck  companion  opened,  and  two 
men  descended.  One  was  a  square  block  of  a  man, 
with  long  arms  and  a  pair  of  bushy  brows  which 
thatched  perpetually  smiling  eyes.  He  was  Baldwin, 
the  American  engineer. 

The  second  man  held  Stirling.  "Mr.  White- 
house,"  Marr  introduced,  with  a  comprehensive 
chuckle  as  he  nodded  toward  the  English  mate. 

Whitehouse  had  the  long,  beaklike  nose  of  the 
typical  cockney,  while  his  lips  were  thick  and  some- 
what red.  His  tanned  features  and  knotted  hands, 
his  quick  manner  and  alert  stride,  spoke  the  Dundee 
and  Grimsby  whaler,  who  had  sailed  many  seas  and 
fastened  to  more  than  an  ordinary  number  of  bow- 
head  whales. 

"We're  all  here!"  declared  Marr.  "Ship's  com- 
pletely outfitted  with  seamen  and  material.  We'll 
drink  to  success!" 

The  little  captain  disappeared  through  an  after 
doorway,  returning  with  a  tray  and  a  bottle.  Set- 
ting these  down  on  a  table,  he  drew  forth  a  chart  of 
the  Arctic  and  Bering  Sea. 

"While  we're  drinking,"  he  said,  hardening  his 
eyes,  "let's  look  over  the  chart.  You,  Stirling, 
might  help  us  out.  Glad  you're  coming  along." 


22  THE  ICE  PILOT 

Stirling  upended  a  decanter  and  poured  out  a 
generous  portion  of  brandy.  He  tasted  this,  wiped 
his  mouth  with  the  back  of  his  hand,  then  leaned  for- 
ward over  the  chart.  His  finger  traced  a  line  from 
the  Aleutians  northward. 

"There,"  he  said,  "is  the  first  whaling  ground- 
just  the  other  side  the  islands.  The  ice  will  lie  about 
here,  and  the  bowhead  can't  go  north  till  it  opens. 
They're  wise  fish,  but  they  can't  get  through  any 
more  than  we  can." 

"How  about  the  other  whaling  spots?"  asked 
Marr. 

"Well,  captain,"  said  Stirling,  "after  the  Bering 
Strait,  you'll  find  a-plenty,  there's  Herald  Island  and 
Wrangel  Land.  There's  Point  Barrow — I've  caught 
late  whales  at  the  Point.  Then  there's  the  lane  be- 
tween the  grounded  ice  floes  and  the  coast,  all  the 
way  to  the  mouth  of  the  Mackenzie  River.  I've 
wintered  three  times  at  Herschel  Island,  and  we  al- 
ways got  bone  in  the  early  spring  when  the  ice 
broke." 

Marr  leaned  over  the  chart  and  asked  softly: 
"How  is  the  whaling  close  to  the  Siberian  shore? 
I've  heard  of  catches  in  the  Gulf  of  Anadir.  I 
think  it  would  be  wise  that  we  go  there  as  soon  as  the 
ice  permits." 

Stirling  glanced  keenly  at  the  little  skipper,  for  he 
sensed  a  deeper  motive  in  the  question.  The  Gulf  of 
Anadir  was  close  indeed  to  Russia.  It  was  a  fa- 
vourite sealing  ground ;  few  whales  were  to  be  found 


OVER  THE  QUARTER-DECK  23 

there.  The  season  was  generally  too  late  to  capture 
any  bowheads  on  account  of  the  ice  barrier  which 
held  back  the  ships. 

"I  don't  recommend  it,"  he  said,  simply.  "I've 
been  there  twice.  First  time  was  in  the  Beluga. 
We  didn't  fasten  to  anything  that  year.  The  second 
time  was  in  the  old  Norwhale — Captain  Gully  com- 
manding. We  fastened  to  one  head  close  by  the 
Siberian  shore.  That  was  all.  It's  barren  waters 
unless  you  can  put  the  ship  in  early." 

"Can't  you  do  that?" 

"Not  always;  sometimes.  I've  seen  the  pack 
ice  so  thick  at  the  Pribilofs,  or  just  north  of  St.  Paul 
Island,  that  it  was  late  in  July  when  we  broke  through 
and  reached  Bering  Strait.  We  got  nothing  but  some 
trade  stuff  from  the  natives  that  season.  It  was 
too  late  to  find  bowheads;  they'd  taken  the  North- 
east Passage  and  gone  through  to  Baffin  Bay." 

"Just  the  same,"  said  Marr,  "I'd  like  to  try  for  the 
Gulf  of  Anadir.  Ever  hear  of  Disko  Island?" 

Stirling  narrowed  his  eyes.  Disko  Island  was  the 
very  heart  of  the  richest  sealing  ground  in  all  the 
world — outside  of  the  Pribilofs.  It  belonged  to 
Russia,  and  around  it  were  gunboats  of  England, 
Japan,  and  the  United  States. 

"I  know  it  well,"  he  said,  dryly.  "There's  plenty 
of  seals  there,  but  darn  few  bowheads!" 

Marr  glanced  at  Whitehouse,  then  his  eyes  travelled 
the  circle  and  rested  upon  the  chart.  He  followed 
Stirling's  pointing  finger. 


24  THE  ICE  PILOT 

"It's  a  blym  shame!"  blurted  out  the  English 
mate.  "It's  an  outrage  that  them  Russians  got  all 
them  nice  little  pelts.  What's  the  'arm  in  lookin'  the 
island  over?  Who's  going  to  bother  now?  Who's 
running  Russia,  anyway?" 

"The  Bolsheviki,"  said  Marr.  "What  do  you 
say  we  take  a  look  at  the  island?  Stirling  can  put 
us  through  the  early  ice.  We'll  skirt  the  Siberian 
shore  afterward.  I  want  to  drop  in  at  East  Cape, 
they  say  trading  is  good  there." 

Stirling  gripped  a  glass  and  raised  it  to  his  lips. 
He  stared  at  the  chart,  then  fastened  a  penetrating 
glance  which  bored  into  the  little  skipper's  brain, 
and  smiled  faintly  as  Marr  remained  silent. 

"I'm  willing,"  he  said.  "I'll  take  you  anywhere. 
We're  all  together.  I  see  no  harm  in  looking  over 
Disko  Island." 

"All  we  want,"  said  Cushner,  rising,  "is  to  follow 
the  skipper,  here,  and  keep  our  jaw  tackle  closed. 
He'll  bring  results!" 

Stirling  was  watching  Marr's  face,  which  lightened 
perceptibly. 

The  captain  of  the  Pole  Star  thrust  his  hand  out, 
palm  upward.  "Well  spoken,"  he  said.  "I '11  guar- 
antee good  results!" 

Marr  rolled  up  the  chart  with  a  swift  whirl  of  his 
hands,  then  rose  and  stared  at  Baldwin,  who  had  re- 
mained silent. 

"Have  you  everything  aboard?"  the  little  skipper 
asked. 


OVER  THE  QUARTER-DECK  25 

"Yes;  we're  coaled.  I  can  safely  say  the  engine- 
room  force  is  complete.  Naturally  we'll  have  to 
recoal  at  whatever  point  we  can  on  the  Siberian  coast 
or  at  Unalaska.  The  bunkers  are  chockablock,  but 
you  know  that  ice  work  takes  the  steam.  And  coal 
is  high;  it'll  be  about  twenty  dollars  a  ton  at 
Dutch  Harbor  or  Point  Barrow,  if  there's  any  there 
at  all." 

"Confounded  little!"  blurted  Stirling.  "There's 
an  on-shore  whaling  station  there  and  a  missionary 
settlement.  But"-— the  Ice  Pilot  paused  and  smiled 
at  a  memory — "there's  a  spot  on  the  coast  east  of 
Point  Barrow  where  we  can  dig  out  all  the  coal  we 
need.  I  know  it.  I  was  there  in  the  old  Northern 
Lights,  and  I  saw  more  coal  than  you  could  find  in 
Pittsburgh.  There's  mountains  of  it  hidden  under 
the  snow." 

"That's  fine!"  Marr  exclaimed.  "We'll  fill  the 
bunkers  there.  Now  everybody  stand  up  and  we'll 
drink  a  final  toast  to  the  success  of  our  venture. 
What'll  the  toast  be?" 

"To  a  full  hold  of  bone!"  Stirling  suggested. 

Marr  glanced  at  Whitehouse.  The  mate  winked 
and  stared  at  his  glass.  "I'd  say,"  he  muttered, 
"that  there's  a  better  toast.  Let's  all  drink  to  suc- 
cess at  Disko  Island,  where  the  seals  are." 

Stirling  grew  thoughtful.  Again  the  subject  of 
seals  had  come  up,  and  he  glanced  from  face  to  face 
about  him.  The  circle  of  men  who  comprised  the 
afterguard  of  the  Pole  Star  would  have  supported 


26  THE  ICE  PILOT 

most  any  desperate  enterprise.  None  was  a 
young  man;  all  were  experienced. 

Stirling  set  down  his  glass.  Marr  had  stepped 
toward  the  after  bulkhead  of  the  cabin,  and  rested 
his  hand  on  the  piano. 

A  slight  bump,  as  if  a  small  boat  had  touched 
the  outer  run  of  the  ship,  sounded,  and  this  was 
followed  by  steps  on  the  deck  overhead.  Voices 
echoed,  and  a  low  call  drifted  through  the  open 
portholes. 

The  captain  turned  with  a  quick  jerk  and  glanced 
upward,  his  hand  lifted  for  silence.  There  came  a 
knocking  on  an  after  door.  This  knocking  was 
repeated. 

"Good-night,  gentlemen!"  Marr  exclaimed.  "Get 
to  your  bunks  and  turn  in.  I'll  expect  you  at  sunup. 
We'll  sail  then!" 

Stirling  followed  the  big  second  mate,  who  knew 
the  run  of  the  ship.  As  they  stood  at  last  in  the 
waist  where  the  shadow  of  the  dark  deck  house  lay 
across  the  planks,  two  riding  lights  shone  through 
the  mist,  and  a  flare  marked  the  cap  of  the  rakish 
funnel.  High  steam  was  in  the  Pole  Star's  boilers. 

"Who  came  aboard?"  asked  Stirling  with  direct- 
ness. 

Cushner  gripped  his  palms,  gulped,  and  stroked 
his  long,  pointed  beard,  then  turned  and  stared  at 
the  low  rail  which  was  over  the  break  of  the  quarter- 
deck. 

"A  passenger!"  he  said. 


OVER  THE  QUARTER-DECK  27 

"A  passenger?" 

"Sure!  Didn't  you  hear  the  voice?  It  was  a 
woman's.  At  least,  it  sounded  that  way  to  me. 
They're  always  bad  luck  at  sea." 

"I've  heard  tell  they  are,"  said  Stirling. 


CHAPTER  IV 

ON    THE    SPARKLING    SEA 

THE  pall  which  lay  around  the  Pole  Star  was 
like  an  ultramarine  depth.     The  narrow  cir- 
cle of  visible  waters   rose   and   fell   sullenly, 
while  aloft  the  taper  spars  merged  into  the  mist. 
Now  and  then  a  grinding  jerk  of  the  anchor  chain 
sent  a  vibrating  shudder  from  stem  to  jack  staff. 
Below  the  holystoned  decks  the  watch  snored,  un- 
aware that  the  tide  hung  at  its  flood  and  that  a  wan 
yellow  sun  was  rising  over  the  Coast  Range  like  a 
paper  lantern  in  a  summer's  garden. 

Stirling  moved  restlessly,  his  eyes  opened  like  a 
quiet  child's,  and  he  surveyed  his  cabin.  The  events 
of  the  night  and  the  early  morning  rushed  back  to  him, 
and  he  blinked  as  he  caught  a  reflection  of  his  face 
in  a  white-bordered  mirror  at  the  head  of  the  bunk. 

He  sprang  to  the  deck,  ducked  his  head  in  a  basin, 
tested  the  taps,  then  dried  himself  with  a  thick  towel. 
Staring  about,  he  found  his  clothes  hanging  from 
hooks  on  the  ship's  sheathing.  Donning  the  clothes, 
he  opened  the  door  and  strode  out  into  an  alleyway 
which  led  to  the  waist  of  the  ship.  He  lifted  his  eyes 
to  the  mist  as  he  emerged  upon  the  damp  planks  and 
sniffed  the  morning  air. 

28 


ON  THE  SPARKLING  SEA  29 

"Howdy!"  exclaimed  Cushner  from  a  position 
at  the  rail.  "About  time  you're  risin'.  We're 
going  to  yank  the  mudhook  up  as  soon  as  Marr  gives 
the  order." 

Stirling  dropped  his  eyes  and  stepped  to  the  mate's 
side.  Staring  over  the  rail,  he  raised  his  finger, 
sniffed  for  a  second  time,  then  declared:  "She'll 
be  clear  by  noon.  This  fog  is  light." 

Cushner  led  the  way  forward  to  the  ornate  forecas- 
tle and  Stirling  glanced  down  through  the  open  booby 
hatch,  to  where  a  row  of  bunks  lined  each  side  of  the 
ship.  In  these  bunks  seamen  slept  with  their  arms 
over  their  faces  and  their  legs  extended.  A  molasses 
barrel  was  lashed  to  the  heel  of  the  foremast,  and  on 
top  of  this  barrel  stood  a  large  pan  of  white  bread. 
The  entire  forecastle  struck  Stirling  as  far  too  clean 
and  too  large  for  a  whaler's.  It  was  more  like  an 
expensive  yacht's. 

"Them's  picked  men!"  said  Cushner.  "Some 
has  been  picked  from  the  gutter  and  some  from  the 
boarding  houses.  I  guess  I'll  wake  them.  It's 
time  for  both  watches  on  deck." 

The  second  mate  lifted  a  belaying  pin  from  the  pin- 
rail  and  pounded  upon  thedecklikea  policeman  pounds 
on  the  pavement.  "  Rise  and  shine,  lads ! "  he  shouted, 
leaning  over  the  companion's  coaming.  "We've  got 
to  pay  Paddy  Doyle  for  his  boots.  All  out !", 

Cushner  listened  and  then  repeated  his  tapping. 
"All  hands  on  deck!"  he  called.  "Step  lively  now, 
men!  It's  five  bells  an'  th'  tide  is  turning!" 


30  THE  ICE  PILOT 

Stirling  heard  protests  from  the  sleepy  crew; 
shoes  flew  across  the  forecastle,  pans  banged,  growls 
and  feeble  protests  rose  as  the  two  watches  gathered 
together  their  clothes  and  attempted  to  dress  in  the 
dark. 

"Coffee  they  get,"  said  Cushner.  "Coffee  and 
eggs  and  plum  duff  and  white  bread  and  bully  beef. 
They're  lucky.  In  my  day  we  chewed  hardtack 
and  drank  bilge  water.  Whaling  has  changed !" 

Stirling  nodded,  and  raised  his  eyes  to  the  rigging 
of  the  Pole  Star,  where  spar  varnish  glistened  from 
yards  and  masts,  and  snow-white  canvas  looped 
downward  like  lingerie  on  clotheslines.  The  run- 
ning rigging  was  of  new  hemp.  It  all  struck  him  as  a 
dream  as  he  turned  and  strode  to  the  rail  by  the  port- 
anchor  davit. 

"See  here,"  he  said  to  Cushner.  "I  doubt  if 
there's  a  finer  sea  boat  afloat,  but  how  about  the 
ice?  She's  sheathed,  but  with  wood.  She  ought 
to  have  a  steel  plate  forward." 

The  big  second  mate  grinned.  "She's  a  good  ice 
ship,  Stirling,"  he  said,  leaning  over  the  rail  and 
pointing  downward.  "That's  teakwood  and  yew. 
There's  nothing  better,  and  it  don't  impede  her  speed 
to  any  extent.  You  ought  to  have  been  aboard 
coming  up  from  Sandy  Point — eleven  point  five  for 
days  at  a  stretch.  She'll  do  thirteen  under  forced 
draft.  She'll  do  two  more  knots  with  the  wind 
abeam.  That's  six-day  boat  speed!" 

Stirling  shook  his  head.     He  had  been  accustomed 


ON  THE  SPARKLING  SEA  31 

to  blunt-bowed  whalers  with  solid  planking  forward 
and  steel  sheathing  aft  to  the  waist.  It  was  the  only 
construction  he  knew  of  which  would  stand  the  grind 
of  the  Northern  ice  floes. 

"Take  a  look  at  the  whaleboats!"  said  Cushner. 
"Simpkins,  of  Dundee,  built  them.  They're  mahog- 
any trimmed.  You  don't  often  see  that." 

Stirling  climbed  the  lee  fore  shrouds  and  grasped 
a  white  boat's  rail  where  it  swung  from  polished 
davits  just  aft  the  break  of  the  forepeak,  and  peered 
inside.  The  whaling  gear  was  all  in  place;  he  counted 
two  tubs  of  whale  line  which  was  carefully  protected 
by  new  tarpaulins.  The  oars  were  fully  sixteen  feet 
in  length,  and  paddles  were  racked  beneath  the  seats. 
A  mast  and  boom — harpoons,  lances,  bomb  guns, 
blubber  spades,  bailing  dippers — lay  in  position 
between  the  centerboard  well  and  the  skin  of  the  boat. 

"Good  equipment'!"  he  declared,  dropping  to  the 
deck  with  a  light  rebound.  "They'll  do.  Wouldn't 
wonder  if  we  have  some  sport  this  voyage.  Last 
season  was  a  bad  one.  It  ain't  natural  for  two  bad 
years  to  run  together.  They  take  turns  about— 
watch  and  watch." 

"She's  well  outfitted,  Stirling.  Thar  ain't  no 
better  ship  going  North  this  season.  You  ought  to 
drop  down  into  the  engine  room  and  see  that  triple- 
expansion  dream.  Baldwin  and  Maddox  say  it's 
one  of  the  finest  engines  ever  turned  out  of  Clyde- 
bank.  Russia  bought  good  stuff  in  the  early  days. 
She  had  the  money  then!" 


32  THE  ICE  PILOT 

Stirling  stared  aft  to  the  deck  house,  out  of  which 
sleepy-eyed  Kanakas  and  boat  steerers  were  appear- 
ing, then  stepped  to  one  rail  and  studied  the  swinging 
sheer  of  the  Pole  Star.  He  saw  beyond  the  smoke 
of  the  cook's  stovepipe  the  swinging  lift  of  the 
quarter-deck.  Upon  this  a  figure  strode  from  rail  to 
rail.  It  was  Marr. 

"How  about  that  woman?"  The  question  drop- 
ped from  Stirling's  lips  as  he  turned  toward  the 
Yankee  second  mate. 

"Your  guess  is  as  good  as  mine.  I  didn't  know 
Marr  had  any  woman  in  view  when  he  dropped 
anchor  in  this  port.  There's  a  kind  of  a  law  against 
women  going  North  in  whalers,  ain't  there?" 

"The  owners  don't  allow  it!  But  then  Marr  is  an 
owner.  He  could  do  anything." 

Cushner  stroked  his  beard.  He  twirled  its  point. 
"I  heard  voices  on  deck  last  night,"  he  said  with 
reserve.  "I'm  willin'  to  venture  five  plugs  of  to- 
bacco that  one  was  a  woman's  voice.  Maybe  she 
came  out  to  say  good-bye  to  the  skipper.  Maybe 
she  didn't.  Maybe  it's  his  wife." 

Stirling  reached  in  the  pocket  of  his  pea-jacket 
and  fished  out  a  plug  of  select  tobacco.  "I  don't 
often  chew,"  he  said,  "but  I'll  bet  this  plug 
against  another  that  it  wasn't  a  woman's  voice  you 
heard." 

"You're  on!"  exclaimed  the  mate.  "It  was  a 
woman's  voice.  She  went  below,  and  she's  aboard 
now.  Time  will  fetch  her  out.  Marr  is  as  close- 


ON  THE  SPARKLING  SEA  33 

mouthed  as  an  oyster.  She's  some  relation;  that's 
sure!" 

Stirling  pocketed  the  plug,  folded  his  arms,  and 
stood  smiling  before  the  big  mate.  He  shook  his 
head.  "I'll  win  that  plug,"  he  said,  sincerely.  "I'm 
a  simple  man,  Cushner.  It  don't  stand  to  reason 
that  Marr  would  bring  a  woman  on  a  whaling  trip. 
If  he's  figuring  on  going  to  Disko  Island  and  the 
Siberian  coast  it  would  be  dangerous.  Those  are 
desperate  seas!" 

"Here's  the  watches!"  exclaimed  the  second  mate. 
"Let's  stir  our  stumps  and  get  the  ship  out,  smart- 
like.  We'll  forget  the  lady  till  you  see  for  your  own 
eyes.  Likely  she's  pretty." 

Stirling  snorted,  his  mind  running  back  to  his 
only  love  affair.  It  was  merged  in  the  failure  of  a 
chicken  farm  over  Oakland  way.  A  widow  had 
cast  eyes  at  the  farm  until  the  chickens  began  to 
pass  away.  This  widow  had  often  dwelt  upon  the 
happiness  of  married  life.  Stirling,  still  in  his  late 
forties,  had  thought  long  and  seriously  over  the 
matter.  He  was  a  man's  man,  and  felt  that  women, 
and  particularly  dashing  widows,  belonged  to  another 
sphere.  They  were  as  much  out  of  his  life  as  the 
stars  that  floated  in  the  heavens — as  remote  as  the 
centre  of  the  antarctic  continent.  He  had  sailed 
the  Northern  seas  too  long  and  far  to  allow  his  mind 
to  dwell  upon  the  land  as  a  final  anchorage  to  his 
ambitions. 

He  made  his  way  aft  to  the  wheel  while  the  mate 


34  THE  ICE  PILOT 

lunged  forward  and  joined  the  group  upon  the  fore- 
castle head.  Marr  stood  close  by  the  binnacle,  and 
just  then  turned  to  the  wheelsman. 

"Stand  ready/'  he  said,  raising  his  eyes  to  Stir- 
ling's. "You  take  charge,"  he  added,  smiling  faintly 
as  the  Ice  Pilot  shot  a  keen  glance  upward  where 
the  morning  sun  was  breaking  through  the  last 
of  the  mist.  "The  deck  is  yours,  Mr.  Stirling.  Mr. 
Whitehouse  will  go  forward  and  join  Mr.  Cushner." 

Stirling  squared  his  shoulders  and  braced  his  legs. 

The  little  skipper,  spick  and  span  in  blue  pea- 
jacket  and  well-cut  trousers,  strode  briskly  to  the 
quarter-deck  rail  and  leaned  over. 

"Steam  on  the  winch!"  he  shouted.  "Lively 
now,  men!" 

A  racking  grind  sounded,  and  the  iron  teeth  of  the 
winch  swallowed  the  rusty  chain  like  a  giant  biting 
a  meal.  The  ship  steadied  in  the  tide  which  was  flow- 
ing through  the  Golden  Gate  as  the  anchor  lifted 
from  the  mud  and  silt  of  the  bay. 

"All's  clear!"  Cushner  called  over  the  whale- 
boats. 

"Hard  aport!"  said  Stirling,  sensing  the  position. 
"Put  her  hard  aport.  Now  up  a  spoke!  More! 
Steady  there!" 

Marr  reached  for  the  engine-room  telegraph,  a 
bell  clanged  below,  the  single  screw  thrashed  the 
water  astern  and  the  Pole  Star  rounded  on  a  long  arc, 
gliding  down  the  bay  to  a  position  off  Meigg's  Wharf. 

A  pilot  and  the  last  papers  were  brought  out  in 


ON  THE  SPARKLING  SEA  35 

a  revenue  cutter  as  Stirling  kept  the  ship  under  bare 
headway.  The  siren  aft  the  funnel  plumed  into  one 
short  blast,  and  they  were  off  on  the  first  leg  of  the 
passage  to  the  Arctic  and  the  Bering  Sea. 

Foghorn  and  whistle  sounded  in  cadence,  and  was 
answered  from  starboard  and  port.  Once  a  bell 
rang  directly  ahead  through  the  fog.  The  engines 
raced  in  reverse,  and  the  Pole  Star  swung  with  her 
dainty  jib  boom  groping  through  the  fog  like  an 
antenna.  She  straightened  under  the  pilot's  direc- 
tions. 

The  veil  thinned,  as  the  sun  struck  through,  bring- 
ing out  the  clean-cut  details  of  the  yards  and  spars. 
A  stagelike  setting  appeared.  To  port  lay  the  city- 
hill  after  hill  of  close-packed  habitations;  to  star- 
board reared  the  green  slopes  of  the  Coast  Range  and 
the  higher  land  of  Mount  Tamalpais.  Beyond  and 
directly  ahead  the  sun  kissed  the  sparkling  ocean. 

The  Pole  Star  glided  under  the  frowning  guns  of 
the  Presidio,  and  danced  across  the  bar.  The  Cliff 
House  and  the  seal  rocks  were  thrown  astern.  The 
land  of  California  sank  to  a  low,  black  line  after  the 
pilot  had  been  dropped  upon  the  deck  of  a  tossing 
kicker  yacht. 


CHAPTER  V 

INTO   A    PURPLE   TWILIGHT 

A   BREEZE,  fresh  and  gripping  with  the  taste 
of  brine,  swept  over  the  stern  of  the  ship  and 
filled  the  canvas  which  Cushner  and  White- 
house  ordered   set.    The  anchor  was   brought   in- 
board and  lashed  to  the  cleats  close  by  the  port  cat. 
The  crew,  feeling  their  sea  legs,  brought  out  hose 
and  swabs  and  started  cleaning  up  the  shore  litter 
and  dunnage,  working  to  the  old-time  chantey :  " '  Rah 
for  the  grog — the  jolly,  jolly  grog." 

Stirling  turned  the  wheel  over  to  the  quartermaster 
after  Marr  had  indicated  a  compass  point,  then  rolled 
across  the  quarter-deck  and  stood  by  the  green 
starboard  light  of  the  ship,  which  was  turned  out. 
He  felt  the  warm  breath  of  the  following  wind,  gulped 
the  sea  air,  and  squared  his  shoulders,  casting  a 
shrewd  eye  at  the  poop-deck  log,  which  was  outrigged 
from  the  starboard  rail. 

The  land  of  California  was  a  haze  over  the  star- 
board quarter.  It  lifted  in  places  like  a  cloud  bank, 
and  the  cleft  which  marked  the  Golden  Gate  was 
crossed  by  the  white  water  of  the  bar.  The  Ice  Pilot 
smiled,  as  the  simplicity  of  clean  living  came  to  him 
as  a  flood. 

36 


INTO  A  PURPLE  TWILIGHT  37 

He  turned  away  from  the  land  vision  and  studied 
the  ship.  On  what  mission  was  she  headed,  he 
wondered?  Upon  what  seas  would  they  force  the 
taper  jib  boom?  What  trade  stuff  and  spoil  would 
be  crammed  between  the  hatches?  He  revolved 
these  questions  over  and  over  in  his  mind,  and  was  in 
the  grip  of  the  unknown.  The  little  dapper  skipper, 
the  woman's  voice,  the  mention  of  Disko  Island,  and 
the  seal  rookeries,  all  wove  their  spell : 

"Though  I  plow  the  land  with  horses, 

Yet  my  heart  is  ill  at  ease, 
For  the  wise  men  come  to  me  now  and  then 
With  their  sagas  of  the  seas." 

He  quoted  this  verse  as  he  pulled  out  a  great  silver 
watch,  gathered  in  the  log  line,  and  timed  fifty 
revolutions. 

The  Pole  Star  was  striking  out  into  the  Pacific 
on  her  first  leg  at  fourteen  point  three  knots  an  hour. 

"Somebody's  pullin'  the  strings,"  Stirling  said 
as  he  let  the  slack  out  of  the  line  and  replaced  the 
silver  watch.  "Maybe  the  Mazeka  girls  of  Indian 
Point,"  he  added,  striding  to  the  poop  rail. 

He  stared  with  idle  interest  at  the  crew  which  were 
still  under  the  able  tutelage  of  Whitehouse  and 
Cushner.  The  British  whaler  had  a  voice  like  a 
costermonger,  and  "Blym  me,  yes"  and  "Heaven 
strike  me  pink"  rolled  up  the  wind  and  burst  like 
shrapnel  upon  the  poop. 


38  THE  ICE  PILOT 

Stirling  narrowed  his  eyes,  and  indeed  the  sight 
of  the  two  mates  in  sea  boots  and  the  ragged  crew 
swarming  along  the  waist  was  one  to  charm  the 
heart  of  a  sailor.  It  brought  to  his  mind  other 
voyages,  and  he  recalled  an  expedition  he  had  piloted 
to  Point  Barrow  and  the  reaches  of  the  Mackenzie. 
A  younger  son,  with  money  to  spend,  had  chartered 
a  whaler  and  taken  the  Northern  seas  in  search  of 
new  game.  Game  he  had  found  in  plenty:  walrus, 
seals — both  hair  and  fur — killer  whales,  bowheads, 
polar  bears,  and  musk  ox  had  fallen  to  the  younger 
son's  rifle  or  harpoon.  The  crew,  however,  had 
proved  too  strong  a  stench  for  polite  nostrils.  They 
were  picked  from  the  slums  of  the  Barbary  Coast. 

The  Pole  Star's  foremast  hands  and  the  most  of 
the  harpooners  and  boat  steerers  would  have  de- 
lighted the  eyes  of  an  ethnologist.  Stirling  studied 
them  and  called  their  breeds.  One  was  a  cockney, 
like  the  mate.  Another  was  a  blue-eyed  Dane. 
Three  Gay  Island  natives  were  mixed  with  two 
Kanakas.  Two  bore  the  high  cheekbones  of 
Swedes.  Four,  at  least,  were  Frisco  dock  rats  who 
had  been  gathered  in  by  the  boarding-house  runners 
and  promised  an  advance,  little  of  which  they 
secured. 

Stirling  searched  the  faces  for  the  sailor  whom  he 
had  seen  in  the  Frisco  room,  but  he  was  not  in 
evidence.  That  sailor  had  impressed  Stirling  as  far 
out  of  the  ordinary.  It  was  not  only  the  polished 
fingernails  and  the  resolute  set  to  the  jaw,  but  also 


INTO  A  PURPLE  TWILIGHT  39 

the  certain  air  which  the  seaman  had  carried  that  led 
to  the  deduction  that  he  had  at  one  time  commanded 
other  men. 

Cushner  mopped  his  face  with  the  back  of  his 
sleeve  and  worked  aft  to  the  break  of  the  poop  on 
the  starboard  side  where  he  glanced  up  at  Stirling. 

"Hello,  old  man!"  he  said,  out  of  hearing  of  the 
busy  crew.  "What  do  you  think  of  the  Pole  Star 
by  now?" 

"Good  ship.     Some  crew,  though." 

The  second  mate  mopped  his  brow  for  a  second 
time,  then  squinted  at  a  gang  working  down  the  deck 
with  squeegees.  "  Eighteen  hands  before  the  mast," 
he  said.  "That  ain't  much  for  six  boats.  We'll  need 
them  all  if  we  lower  for  bowheads." 

"Where's  the  sailor  who  came  out  with  me?" 

"He's  below!"  This  was  said  expressively,  with 
a  heavy  wink.  "  I  think  he'll  stay  below  for  a  watch 
or  two.  Somebody — maybe  it  was  Marr — bounced 
a  belaying  pin  over  his  figurehead.  It'll  heal  in 
time." 

"What  did  you  make  of  the  sailor?" 

"  Maybe  a  spy.     Maybe  a  good  man  gone  wrong." 

"  He  recognized  Marr  in  the  Blubber  Room !" 

Cushner  shook  his  head.  "We'll  watch  that 
fellow  like  a  killer  whale.  He'll  walk  straight  under 
me  and  Whitehouse." 

The  second  mate  closed  his  jaws  with  a  snap  and 
glared  forward,  then  was  off  with  a  rolling  lurch  to 
where  a  slight  spot  showed  on  the  deck.  Grasping 


40  THE  ICE  PILOT 

a  Gay  Islander  by  the  neck,  he  led  him  to  the  omission 
and  pointed  downward.  Stirling  heard  the  racking 
volley  of  exclamations  as  the  native  fell  to  work  with 
vigour. 

The  Pole  Star  plunged  on.  She  took  the  long, 
oily  rollers  of  the  North  Pacific  and  parted  them  like 
a  sharp  knife  going  through  frosting.  She  was  log- 
ging fourteen  knots  with  reserve  steam.  The  fore, 
main,  and  mizzen  sails  filled  and  billowed  and  the 
foretopmast  staysail  and  jib  held  the  following  wind. 
Whitehouse,  casting  an  eye  aloft,  ordered  the  top- 
sails braced  then  sprang  to  the  weather  braces  as  the 
crew  hauled  manfully  under  the  directions  of  Cush- 
ner. 

Marr  leaned  over  the  canvas  of  the  poop  and 
rested  his  elbows  on  the  light  rail,  searching  the  sea 
ahead  with  his  glasses.  He  turned  to  the  wheelsman. 
"How  you  heading?"  he  asked  as  the  last  yard  was 
braced. 

"Nor' west  by  north." 

"Hold  her  northwest  by  north.     Hold  her  steady!" 

The  ship  drove  through  the  day  and  into  a  purple 
twilight,  and  the  land  of  California  disappeared 
astern.  It  left  to  mark  its  position  a  low  line  of 
gray  clouds  upon  which  the  sun  gleamed  and  paled 
and  died  to  darker  hues. 


CHAPTER  VI 

BY   THE    GREAT-CIRCLE    ROUTE 

THE  steady  clanking  of  the  triple-expansion 
engines  driving  the  screw  at  a  racing  speed  of 
one  hundred  and  ten  revolutions  a  minute,  the 
glow  over  the  drab  funnel,  the  hiss  of  sea  alongside — • 
these  all  denoted  that  they  were  reaching  for  the  far- 
off  Aleutian  and  the  pass  that  marked  Dutch  Harbor, 
where  whalers  and  Yukon  boats  left  the  Pacific  and 
entered  the  waters  of  the  Bering  Sea. 

Stirling  shared  the  mess  with  Cushner  and  White- 
house  and  the  two  engineers.  Marr  had  given 
orders  that  in  no  circumstances  should  he  be  dis- 
turbed in  the  after  cabin.  This  order,  communicated 
by  the  cockney  mate,  caused  the  conversation  to  veer 
from  speculation  to  concrete  suspicions. 

Cushner  rose  from  his  meal  with  a  nod  toward 
Stirling.  "Let's  go  on  deck,"  he  said,  steadying 
himself  by  grasping  the  racks.  "Let's  have  a 
smoke  and  turn  about.  Mr.  Whitehouse  has  the 
watch  till  eight  bells." 

Stirling  crammed  a  palmful  of  tobacco  into  a  cord- 
wrapped  pipe,  clutched  the  second  mate's  arm,  and 
led  him  to  the  waist  of  the  ship,  where  they  stood 
beneath  the  shadow  of  the  starboard  whaleboat. 

4' 


42  THE  ICE  PILOT 

"We're  not  wanted  on  the  poop!"  exclaimed 
Cushner. 

"The  wheel's  there  and  the  binnacle's  there,  and 
the  log  line's  there,"  suggested  Stirling,  pressing  his 
thumb  down  upon  the  glowing  coals  of  his  pipe. 
"We've  got  to  go  aft." 

"'Only  for  duty/  that's  what  the  old  man  said. 
What  do  you  make  of  that?  He  wants  the  after 
part  of  the  ship  to  himself." 

"It's  his  ship,  Cushner!" 

The  Yankee  mate  counted  on  his  fingers.  "There's 
only  two  aft,"  he  said.  "Two — the  old  man  and 
Snowball,  the  cabin  boy." 

Stirling  pulled  on  his  pipe.  "How  about  the 
woman  you  heard?"  he  asked,  dryly. 

"Maybe  she's  there,  Horace.  Maybe  she  is! 
Maybe  that's  his  reason  for  wanting  the  quarter-deck 
to  himself.  He  had  two  Gay  Islanders  rig  up  a 
screen  between  the  wheel  and  the  tafTrail.  All  that's 
aft  of  the  screen  is  the  companion  to  the  cabin  and  a 
bucket  rack.  Thar's  just  about  room  to  turn  about 
in.  A  nice  little  cubby  place  I'd  call  it." 

Stirling  thought  the  matter  over,  backing  into  the 
gloom  and  shading  his  eyes.  The  tip  of  the  wheel, 
with  one  spoke,  showed  over  the  low  canvas  sail. 
Beside  this  spoke  was  the  soiled  tassel  of  the  wheel- 
man's cap.  Aft  rose  the  mizzenmast  with  its  spotless 
canvas  billowing  forward  like  Carrara  marble.  The 
telltale  on  the  top  of  the  mast  denoted  a  freshening 
south  wind.  The  swing  of  the  ship,  the  thrust  of  the 


BY  THE  GREAT-CIRCLE  ROUTE       43 

screw,  the  song  which  sounded  from  forward  where 
a  group  of  seamen  were  gathered  on  the  forecastle 
head — all  these  spoke  of  action  and  a  driving  force  to 
Northern  seas  where  hearts  beat  strong  and  staunch 
winds  cut  to  the  quick. 

The  Ice  Pilot  turned  to  Cushner,  pressing  the  bowl 
of  his  pipe  with  his  broad  thumb.  "We're  making 
good  time,"  he  said,  thoughtfully.  "  Five  days  of  this 
and  we'll  sight  our  Aleutian  landfall.  I  guess  we'd 
better  not  worry  about  the  cubby-hole  aft  and  the 
woman.  I  never  could  understand  them,  anyhow." 

Cushner  laughed  and  clapped  Stirling  on  the  back. 
He  withdrew  a  foot  or  more,  spread  his  legs  wide,  and 
surveyed  Stirling  with  mingled  pride  and  calculation. 

Cushner  squinted  as  he  drawled:  "You're  all 
right,  old  man !  You  ain't  no  clothing-store  dummy 
or  one  of  them  smart  ducks  with  spar-deck  shoes  and 
a  gold  lanyard  to  your  watch  chain;  but  you'll  pass 
where  they  won't.  You're  a  man — every  inch  of 
you!  I've  heard  thar  ain't  no  better,  when  it  comes 
to  ice  work." 

Stirling  was  silent.     He  dragged  on  his  pipe. 

"A  woman's  man,"  continued  Cushner,  "ain't  for 
these  seas  or  the  seas  we're  agoing  to.  And  by 
saying  that  I  don't  mean  no  disrespect  for  the  skipper. 
I  was  with  him  coming  round  the  Horn.  A  fighter, 
he  is,  and  all  that — but  there's  a  polish  to  him  I  don't 
like.  It  ain't  natural.  He's  like  a  polite  boarding- 
house  runner.  Them's  the  sharks  to  look  out  for. 
They  know  more  than  we  do!" 


44  THE  ICE  PILOT 

"We'll  keep  our  jaw  tackle  chockablock!"  said 
Stirling,  tapping  his  pipe  against  the  rail  and  cram- 
ming it  into  his  side  pocket.  "We'll  sail  ship  and 
tend  to  our  duties.  I'll  get  the  crow's-nest  up  in  the 
morning.  You'll  find  me  ready  for  anything — short 
of  breaking  the  law  of  the  three  nations.  I'll  put 
the  Pole  Star  where  the  old  man  says,  but  I  won't 
raid  no  rookeries  with  him.  I  won't  do  that !" 

The  positive  set  to  Stirling's  jaw  was  a  relief  to 
Cushner.  He  nodded.  "Me,  too,"  he  said,  moving 
aft.  "  I'm  willin'  to  whale  or  trade  or  go  to  the  Pole 
with  you  in  charge  of  th'  ship." 

Stirling  went  to  his  cabin,  latched  the  sliding  door 
which  led  to  the  starboard  waist,  and  undressed 
slowly.  He  sank  into  a  profound  sleep,  broken  once 
by  a  dream  of  Frisco  and  the  Coast  of  Barbary. 

He  awoke  as  the  little  marine  clock  above  the 
bunk  was  striking  seven  bells,  reached  to  a  shelf  and 
drew  toward  him  a  compass  set  in  a  leather  binding. 
It  was  part  of  his  possessions  brought  out  in  the 
dunnage  bag  from  Antone's  cigar  store. 

Steadying  his  compass  by  a  crack  at  the  head  of  the 
bunk,  he  made  a  shrewd  calculation  as  to  the  direction 
the  Pole  Star  was  heading. 

The  course  had  been  changed  overnight.  It  was  now 
northwest  by  west.  The  needle  vibrated  with  the 
throbbing  of  the  engines,  but  each  time  it  settled 
back  to  the  first  point. 

Stirling  rose  and  dressed  without  haste,  clapped 
his  cap  on  his  head,  and  strode  through  the  doorway 


BY  THE  GREAT-CIRCLE  ROUTE       45 

to  the  damp  deck.  Here  he  leaned  over  the  star- 
board rail  and  glanced  downward  at  the  swift-running 
foam  which  seethed  alongside  the  ship's  planks, 
then  raised  his  eyes  and  swept  the  horizon.  It  was 
pale  to  the  eastward  with  the  first  rosy  flush  of 
dawn. 

For  a  moment  he  remained  in  one  position,  then 
turned  and  stared  aft  with  his  eyes  wide  and  intent. 
The  gloom  which  shrouded  the  poop  of  the  ship  was 
lightened  by  the  upward  glow  of  an  open  companion, 
and  a  figure  stood  to  the  extreme  port  side  of  the 
quarter-deck.  This  figure  was  shrouded  and  muffled 
but  the  red  reflection  from  the  side  light  brought 
out  some  details. 

Stirling  gripped  the  rail  and  continued  staring.  It 
was  Marr,  no  doubt,  who  had  taken  the  position  so 
near  the  wheelsman.  There  was  that  to  the  set  of  the 
head,  however,  which  caused  Stirling  concern.  Marr 
generally  held  his  chin  high.  This  head,  as  seen  over 
the  drab  canvas,  was  dropped  and  thoughtful. 

The  wheelsman  turned  and  touched  his  cap.  Stir- 
ling heard  part  of  a  question,  which  concerned  the 
course,  and  it  was  not  answered.  The  figure  started, 
half  leaned  away,  then  swung  about  and  disappeared 
in  the  gloom  of  the  smudge  astern  where  the  funnel 
smoke  drifted  and  swirled. 

The  shaftlike  light  from  the  open  cabin  companion 
grew  pale,  then  was  blotted  out  by  a  descending 
figure.  A  slide  closed  with  a  loud  slam,  and  the  ship 
plunged  on,  leaving  Stirling  no  wiser  for  his  impres- 


46  THE  ICE  PILOT 

sions.     He  turned  with  a  half  grumble  and  hurried 
forward. 

Cushner  was  emerging  from  the  deck  house,  having 
stolen  a  trip  inside  to  the  cook's  galley,  where  coffee 
was  always  steaming. 

"Good  morning!"  he  exclaimed,  recognizing  Stir- 
ling's form  on  the  deck.  "Sun's  clear  and  wind's 
abeam — almost.  Light  wind  and  a  flowing  sea. 
Good  morning,  I  said!" 

"Who  changed  the  course?"  asked  Stirling,  point- 
blank.  "We're  not  headed  right.  We  can't  make 
Dutch  Pass  or  anywhere  near  it  on  this  tack.  What 
does  Marr  mean?" 

Cushner  scratched  his  head,  raised  his  hand,  and 
pointed  astern.  "Whitehouse  gave  me  the  new 
course  when  the  watches  were  changed,"  he  said. 
"That's  all  I  know.  It's  a  long  way  from  where 
we  expected  we  were  going,  Stirling." 

"Jumping  bowheads,  yes!  It's  toward  the  great- 
circle  route.  Another  half  point  and  we'll  be  on  it. 
What  does  that  mean,  Cushner?" 

"I'll  be  skull-dragged  if  I  know!" 

"The  great-circle  route  leads  to  Japan  and  north- 
ern China.  We'll  sight  Rat  Island  on  this  route,  and 
miss  the  only  good  pass  to  the  Bering  by  five  hundred 
leagues.  That  ain't  right!" 

"Thar's  a  lot  about  this  ship  what  ain't  right!" 
declared  the  Yankee.  "We're  in  the  hands  of  Cap- 
tain Marr." 

Stirling  reached  for  his  pipe,  gathered  together 


BY  THE  GREAT-CIRCLE  ROUTE       47 

a  palmful  of  cut  plug,  struck  a  sulphur  match  on  the 
rail  at  his  side  and  held  the  flame  to  the  bowl  till  it 
glowed.  He  drew  in  the  smoke,  then  squared  his 
jaw  and  clamped  the  amber  stem. 

"We'll  keep  our  eyes  open ! "  he  said  through  white 
teeth.  "  I  think  I  saw  the  woman  on  the  poop.  I 
think  it  was  a  woman.  She  wouldn't  answer  the 
man  at  the  wheel.  She  had  Marr's  clothes  on.  That's 
mighty  queer  doings  for  a  simple  whaler  bound  after 
bowheads  and  trade  stuff!" 

Cushner  thrust  out  a  calloused  hand.  "Put  it  there," 
he  said.  "We'll  see  this  voyage  through  and  find  out 
what's  wrong  if  it  takes  three  seasons.  I'm  just 
almighty  curious  to  know!" 


CHAPTER  VII 

DRIFTERS    AND    DERELICTS 

STIRLING  kept  a  careful  record  of  the  changes 
given  in  the  course  of  the  Pole  Star,  and  found 
that  the  little  skipper  was  reaching  for  the  true 
great-circle  route  to  Yokohama.  This  was  checked 
by  Cushner,  who  was  a  good  rule-of -thumb  navigator. 

They  kept  their  observations  from  Whitehouse. 
The  mate  was  a  frugal  soul  who  spent  much  of  his 
time  driving  the  crew  over  the  decks  or  keeping 
them  polishing  the  brass  work  with  a  sand-and-paste 
preparation  which  was  homemade  and  cheap. 

"Hit  keeps  'em  from  thinking  of  their  troubles," 
he  had  declared  to  Stirling.  "Now  that  the  skipper 
has  taken  charge  of  the  poop,  there  isn't  much  for 
them  to  do." 

Stirling  bided  his  time  and  kept  a  close  watch  on 
the  quarter-deck.  He  often  saw  Marr  striding  from 
port  to  starboard  and  back  again  directly  aft  the 
wheelsman,  though  the  canvas  that  had  been  rigged 
shut  off  most  of  the  view  of  the  taffrail  and  the  jack- 
staff.  A  position  in  the  crow's-nest,  however,  was  a 
fair  one  to  observe  the  after  part  of  the  Pole  Star. 
From  this  coign  of  vantage  Stirling  watched  develop- 
ments with  eyes  which  had  been  sharpened  by  suspi- 

48 


DRIFTERS  AND  DERELICTS  49 

cion  and  a  determination  to  find  out  the  truth  about 
the  unknown  woman. 

Cushner  climbed  up  through  the  lubber's  hole  on 
the  third  day  of  the  outbound  passage,  lifted  himself 
over  the  edge  of  the  crow's-nest,  and  dropped  down 
beside  Stirling. 

Their  course  had  been  changed  a  half  point  by 
Marr's  orders.  The  wind  was  southerly  and  came 
over  the  port  quarter  in  soft  billows  of  warmth.  It 
had  been  tempered  by  the  Japan  Current. 

"Got  a  chew?"  asked  the  second  mate,  resting  his 
elbows  on  the  edge  of  the  crow's-nest  and  squinting 
aft  to  where  the  mizzen  sail  billowed,  with  the  yard 
set  sharply  around. 

Stirling  passed  over  a  plug.  "Save  me  some," 
he  said,  slowly.  "Go  easy,  Sam.  I  don't  often  use 
the  weed,  but  I  may  have  to  do  something  desperate 
if  Marr  keeps  changing  his  course.  We're  almost 
on  the  Japan  route.  Another  half  point  will  see  the 
great-circle  route.  That  takes  us  far  up  and  out  in 
the  North  Pacific.  Wouldn't  wonder  if  it  was  a 
rendezvous." 

"What's  that?"  asked  Cushner,  clamping  his  huge 
jaws  on  the  plug  and  parting  his  icicle-like  beard  for 
a  second  bite. 

"A  meeting-place.   A  gamming  spot  in  the  ocean !" 

Cushner  understood  the  last.  "Gamming"  was  a 
term  used  only  by  whalers.  It  meant  visiting  an- 
other ship  or  being  visited  by  the  afterguard  of  a 
whaler. 


5o  THE  ICE  PILOT 

"  Maybe,  Stirling.  Maybe.  Who  could  we  gamm 
out  in  this  ocean?"  The  second  mate  swept  an  arm 
to  the  northward.  A  wild  waste  of  harrowed  waters, 
stirred  into  whitecaps  by  the  southern  breeze,  ex- 
tended to  a  linelike  horizon.  There  was  no  speck  or 
sail  to  gladden  the  view.  It  appeared  like  a  stretch 
which  would  reach  infinity. 

"How  about  seals?"  continued  Cushner. 

"Ain't  likely  we're  going  after  them,"  said  Stirling. 

Stirling  turned  and  stared  down  upon  the  quarter- 
deck. The  wheelsman — a  Kanaka — hung  on  the 
spokes  with  his  dark  eyes  glued  into  the  binnacle; 
the  canvas  shield  was  too  high  to  allow  a  view  of  the 
taffrail  and  the  cabin  companion.  Once  only  Stirling 
saw  moving  shadows  against  the  light,  as  if  more 
than  one  body  had  passed  from  starboard  to  port. 
He  frowned  and  turned  away,  as  there  was  no  way 
to  discover  the  exact  situation. 

Cushner  borrowed  the  plug  of  tobacco  for  a  third 
bite,  passing  it  back  without  thanks.  He  stared  at 
Stirling,  lifted  one  huge  leg  over  the  edge  of  the 
crow's-nest,  waited  till  the  ship  steadied,  and  then 
was  gone. 

Stirling  remained.  He  glance  ahead  over  the 
wilderness  of  Northern  waters,  and  the  soft  rush  of 
their  passage  charmed  him.  The  neat  manner  in 
which  the  whaler  cleft  the  seas,  the  throbbing  of  the 
sweet-running  engines,  gladdened  his  heart,  and  he 
began  to  whistle  a  little  tune  of  the  West  coast.  After 
all,  he  decided,  the  world  was  not  such  a  bad  place  for 


DRIFTERS  AND  DERELICTS  51 

a  man  to  fight  in  and  conquer.  He  had  made  many 
mistakes.  He  should  have  commanded  a  ship  in- 
stead of  being  an  ice  pilot.  The  chicken  venture 
and  the  wiping  out  of  his  scanty  fortune  had  been 
unfortunate.  It  had  set  him  back  five  years  in  his 
ambitions. 

His  face  lighted  and  grew  resolute  with  the  wine 
of  living.  He  had  a  code,  which  was  the  code  of 
right.  He  had  always  played  fair  with  seamen  and 
natives,  and  decided  to  see  the  voyage  out,  earn 
every  penny  he  could,  then  try  for  a  ship  of  his  own. 
Whalers  would  stake  him  to  almost  anything.  Marr 
might  be  open  for  an  investment.  The  thing  to  do 
was  to  keep  the  little  skipper's  good  will,  and  watch 
developments,  which  came  fast  enough. 

On  the  seventh  day  after  leaving  the  Golden  Gate, 
a  gleam  of  light  was  thrown  upon  the  mystery  of  the 
great-circle  passage. 

Stirling,  Cushner,  and  Whitehouse  stood  in  the 
waist  of  the  ship  with  nothing  more  to  do  than  watch 
the  crew  lolling  forward  in  indolent  respite  from  their 
light  labours. 

The  sun  hung  high  in  the  south  with  gray  clouds 
creeping  up  to  it  like  a  closing  hand.  The  wind  had 
veered  to  the  south  and  west,  and  canted  the  whaler 
ever  so  slightly,  as  all  yards  were  braced  fore  and  aft. 

"What  is  the  exact  position?"  asked  Stirling, 
turning  toward  Whitehouse,  who  had  shot  the  sun 
and  finished  his  figuring. 

"I  make  it  49-52  and   179-58!    We're  near  the 


52  THE  ICE  PILOT 

Aleutians  and  close  to  the  one  hundred  and  eightieth 
meridian!" 

Cushner  glanced  at  the  sun.  "We're  about  that !" 
he  said  with  Yankee  shrewdness.  "  I  can  smell  my 
position  in  these  waters.  I  smell  shore  stuff — fish 
and  moss." 

"It  comes  down  the  wind!"  snorted  the  cockney 
with  a  burst  of  disgust. 

"All  the  same,  I  don't  need  no  sextant.  All  I  need 
is  a  lead  line  and  experience." 

Whitehouse  gulped  at  this  and  worked  his  brows 
up  and  down  like  a  gorilla,  then  turned  toward  the 
after  part  of  the  ship.  "Seen  the  skipper?"  he 
asked.  "Seen  the  old  man?  'E's  been  shaved — 'e 
'as!  'E  looks  fine — 'edoes!" 

"Shaved?"  exclaimed  Stirling,  wheeling  and  star- 
ing at  the  quarter-deck.  "What  do  you  mean? 
Has  he  taken  off  his  beard?" 

"You're  blym  well  right,  'e  'as!  I  wouldn't 
know  'im!  Looks  like  a  regular,  'e  does.  All  spick 
and  span.  'E  was  askin'  about  our  position  not  a 
bell  ago.  'E's  expectin'  to  meet  with  something  on 
these  seas.  Likely  it  will  be  another  ship!" 

"You  and  he  are  rather  thick,"  suggested  Stirling. 

"As  thick  as  costermongers — once!  Now  Vs  re- 
tired from  view  like  a  loidy  of  the  music  'alls.  I 
don't  know  what  to  think." 

The  mate  was  evidently  in  earnest,  and  Stirling 
eyed  him  sharply,  then  turned  away  and  stared  at 
Cushner.  The  Yankee  hitched  up  his  beard  and 


DRIFTERS  AND  DERELICTS  53 

thrust  it  under  the  collar  of  his  soiled  pea-jacket- 
then  started  as  he  glared  toward  the  poop. 

"Old  man  wants  you,"  he  said.  "He's  callin' 
you,  Mr.  Whitehouse." 

The  cockney  mate  braced  his  shoulders  and  hur- 
ried aft  to  the  poop  steps  on  the  weather  side.  He 
mounted  them  and  disappeared  behind  the  canvas 
where  Marr  had  sauntered. 

"What  do  you  think?"  asked  Cushner. 

"Nothing  yet,  Sam.  Hold  your  jaw  tackle.  Where 
did  you  first  meet  with  Whitehouse?" 

"The  same  day  you  was  shanghaied.  He  came 
across  the  States  by  rail.  He  brought  two  dunnage 
bags  and  a  whacking  accent  with  him.  Had  papers, 
all  right.  Said  he'd  been  in  the  British  navy.  I 
asked  him  why  he  left." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"He  said  it  was  a  mere  matter  of  five  thousand 
pounds.  That's  just  what  he  said.  That's  money, 
isn't  it?" 

"Considerable  money!  I  wonder  if  he  is  under 
obligations  to  Marr  in  any  way?" 

"Might  be.  Looks  mighty  like  it.  At  that,  the 
old  man  isn't  telling  anybody  anything.  He  owns 
the  ship.  He's  got  a  right  to  whale  and  seal  and 
trade  with  the  natives.  Nothing's  going  to  stop  him 
doing  that." 

"Not  if  he  goes  after  pelagic  seals  and  keeps  within 
the  law." 

"Why  is  he  working  in  these  waters?" 


54  THE  ICE  PILOT 

Stirling  did  not  answer  this  question,  but  stared 
forward  and  directly  at  the  watch  on  deck.  He 
counted  them,  searching  for  the  seaman  who  had 
put  up  the  fight  when  brought  aboard.  He  was  not 
in  evidence. 

"  I  wonder,"  asked  Stirling,  with  a  pucker  on  his 
brow,  "if  Marr  expects  that  crew  to  follow  him  in  a 
lawless  enterprise?  Outside  of  three  or  four,  I 
know  them  from  hearsay.  They're  drifters.  They 
expect  nothing  but  an  iron  dollar.  Larribee 
hasn't  paid  a  whaling  hand  a  cent  over  the  legal 
dollar  in  five  seasons.  He  figures  the  advance  money 
and  the  stuff  they  draw  from  the  slop-chest  is  enough 
for  sea  scum.  He  has  no  heart  at  all!" 

"Dirty  work!" 

"It  is,"  said  Stirling,  sincerely.  "Particularly 
when  they  don't  even  get  the  advance  money.  The 
boarding-house  keepers,  crimps,  and  runners  get 
that.  They  furnish  a  man  with  an  outfit  and  a 
dunnage  bag.  The  outfit  consists  of  a  'donkey's 
breakfast'  for  a  mattress  and  a  pair  of  pasteboard 
sea  boots  which  will  melt  under  the  first  hose.  That's 
no  way  to  send  a  man  North!" 

Cushner  glanced  at  the  Ice  Pilot.  He  shook  his 
head.  "You're  sticking  up  for  poor  Jack,"  he  said. 
"That's  no  more  than  right.  The  laws  are  all  for 
the  owners  and  the  boarding-house  crimps.  Poor 
Jack  is  friendless.  What  can  he  do?" 

"There's  seamen  and  seamen,  Sam!  There's  the 
coasting  crews  and  the  deep-water  bunch  who  know 


DRIFTERS  AND  DERELICTS  55 

enough  to  get  big  wages  and  hold  to  the  Union.  The 
ones  who  suffer  are  boys  like  we  got  forward.  They 
have  no  chance;  they  work  eight  months  for  an  iron 
dollar  and  are  cheated  out  of  that!" 

Cushner  slanted  his  eyes  forward.  "They  don't 
look  as  if  they'd  care  what  happened,"  he  said. 
"Marr,  or  anybody  else,  could  give  them  a  good 
argument  and  they'd  follow  him  to  the  end  of  the 
world.  Five  square  faces  of  gin  and  tobacco  would 
buy  the  whole  fo'c's'le." 

Stirling  lifted  his  strong  shoulders  expressively. 
"You're  partly  right!"  he  admitted.  "I  wouldn't 
blame  them,  either.  But  you're  here  and  I'm  here, 
and  we're  going  to  see  that  this  ship  keeps  within  the 
law." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ON   A   LOWER    BUNK 

SUDDENLY  Stirling  ceased  speaking  and  strode 
to  the  rail,  glancing  keenly  under  the  shelter  of 
his  right  palm. 

"Speck  in  sight!"  he  called.  "Looks  like  a  ship 
headed  this  way!  Make  it  out,  Cushner?" 

The  second  mate  strained  his  eyes,  then  mopped 
them  with  his  sleeve  and  tried  again.  "Not  yet," 
he  said.  "You  have  fine  sight.  Where  away?" 

"About  two  points  off  the  bow.  There  she  is. 
See  her?  A  brig,  I  think.  See  the  smoke?" 

Cushner  nodded  with  a  sudden  jerk  of  his  chin. 
"Just  a  smudge.  She's  hull  down!" 

It  was  a  full  half  hour  later  before  Stirling  made 
out  the  Japanese  flag  which  fluttered  at  the  stern  of 
the  brig.  He  called  out  her  nationality  then  swung 
and  glanced  toward  the  poop  and  the  wheelman. 
Marr  stood  under  the  shelter  of  the  rail  with  both 
elbows  resting  upon  the  canvas  and  a  pair  of  twelve- 
diameter  glasses  focused  ahead.  He  lowered  these 
glasses,  reached  for  the  engine-room  telegraph,  and 
the  throbbing  of  the  Pole  Star's  screws  died  to 
a  quiver.  The  yards  were  braced  back  and  the 
whaler  came  up  into  the  wind  with  scant  headway. 

56 


ON  A  LOWER  BUNK  57 

This  brought  the  Japanese  brig  upon  the  starboard 
waist. 

The  funnel  of  the  strange  ship  belched  forth  a 
volcano  of  smoke  which  could  come  only  from 
Japanese  coal.  She  wallowed  across  the  sea  and 
came  up  into  the  wind  on  the  same  tack  as  the  Pole 
Star  was  headed. 

A  longboat  was  dropped  awkwardly.  Seamen 
to  the  number  of  four  swarmed  overside  and  waited 
for  a  fifth  figure  to  descend  a  ladder  lowered  for  his 
benefit.  The  boat  sheered  from  the  brig  and  danced 
across  the  waves  under  the  swing  of  four  oars  which 
were  smartly  handled. 

Penyan  Mam  was  the  name  Stirling  made  out  on 
the  brig  as  it  hove  to  a  double  cable's  length  away. 
A  greater  contrast  to  the  Pole  Star  could  not  have 
been  fashioned.  Built  in  Japan  before  the  war,  the 
brig  still  carried  some  of  the  top-hamper  which 
rightly  belonged  to  a  junk.  Her  yards  were  canted, 
her  masts  sloped  forward  instead  of  aft,  her  standing 
rigging  was  loose  and  weather-rotted. 

Along  the  rail  of  the  Penyan  Maru  ran  a  line  of 
pigeon-blue  boats  which  were  too  large  for  dories, 
too  small  for  whaleboats.  She  bore  the  unmistak- 
able evidence  of  a  Japanese  sealer,  a  vampire  of  the 
sea — as  much  an  object  of  suspicion  to  every  revenue 
cutter  as  a  jailbird  would  be  to  a  self-respecting 
policeman. 

The  four  seamen  who  rowed  the  longboat  lifted 
their  oars  smartly  enough  as  they  rounded  under  the 


58  THE  ICE  PILOT 

starboard  rail  of  the  Pole  Star.  Whitehouse,  on  the 
poop,  lowered  a  bosn's  ladder,  and  up  this  climbed 
the  figure  of  a  man  who  would  have  attracted  atten- 
tion on  any  ocean. 

He  was  fat  and  yellow;  his  moon-broad  face  was 
stabbed  here  and  there  with  tiny  bristles  like  the 
nose  of  a  walrus;  his  slanted  eyes  glittered  and 
beamed  as  he  raised  himself  over  the  rail,  took 
Whitehouse's  hand,  and  sprang  to  the  deck  of  the 
Pole  Star.  He  advanced  to  Marr's  side  with  a  roll- 
ing waddle,  and  the  two  men  clasped  in  friendly 
grasp.  It  was  evident  to  the  watchers  on  the  whaler 
that  they  were  friends. 

They  stood  a  moment  on  the  deck,  then  Marr 
pointed  toward  the  north  and  east.  The  Japanese 
followed  his  direction,  smiled  blandly,  and  whis- 
pered something  into  the  little  skipper's  ear.  They 
went  below  by  way  of  the  cabin  companion,  the  slide 
of  which  they  closed  after  them. 

Stirling  glanced  keenly  at  Cushner,  walked  to  the 
rail,  and  leaned  over  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
dingy  sides  and  crazy  rigging  of  the  sealer.  He 
dropped  his  glance  and  studied  the  four  of  a  crew 
who  were  alongside  the  whaler's  run,  just  aft  the  break 
of  the  poop.  These  seamen  made  no  effort  to  com- 
municate in  any  way  with  the  crew  of  the  Pole  Star. 
They  sat  silently  waiting  for  their  master  to  return. 

Cushner  rolled  to  Stirling's  side  and  leaned  his 
elbows  on  the  rail.  He,  too,  glanced  at  the  small 
boat  and  its  contents. 


ON  A  LOWER  BUNK  59 

"A  sealer's  crew,"  he  said.  "Them's  Japanese 
sealers.  See  the  rifles  and  the  clubs.  They  ain't 
found  in  an  ordinary  boat.  They're  for  pelagic  seal- 
ing, or  any  other  kind.  Nice-lookin'  outfit." 

"Efficient  and  minding  their  own  business!"  de- 
clared Stirling. 

"What  did  you  think  of  the  emperor  who  came 
aboard?  He  was  welcome ! " 

Stirling  turned  and  glanced  toward  the  poop. 
"Sam,"  he  said,  "there's  more  things  on  these  seas 
than  we  will  ever  know.  That  brig  is  a  supply  ship 
of  some  kind.  If  not  that,  it  is  going  to  meet  us  at 
some  later  date  and  take  off  our  trade  stuff." 

"Also  seal  pelts." 

"Yes;  seal  pelts  if  they're  secured  in  an  honest 
manner.  I  don't  care  where  Marr  disposes  of  his 
catch,  as  long  as  the  catch  is  square  and  above- 
board!" 

"Here  comes  the  walrus  again.  Look  how  he's 
smiling.  They  must  have  had  a  nip  of  gin.  Marr 
is  rubbing  his  hands  like  as  if  he'd  made  a  good 
bargain." 

The  Japanese  waddled  to  the  rail,  climbed  up- 
ward, and  descended  the  ladder  to  the  waiting  small 
boat.  Marr  stood  over  him  and  cast  off  the  painter, 
and  the  boat  sprang  away  from  the  sheer  of  the  Pole 
Star.  It  danced  across  the  sea,  vanished  under  the 
Penyan  Marus  counter,  and  was  hoisted  aboard. 

A  plume  of  black  Japanese  coal  smoke  shot  up  from 
the  rusty  funnel.  The  yards  were  squared  and  the 


60  THE  ICE  PILOT 

sealer  wallowed  toward  the  north  and  west,  vanish- 
ing in  a  cloud  of  its  own  making. 

A  bell  later  Marr  gave  the  order  for  a  change  of 
course  and  reached  for  the  engine-room  telegraph. 
The  screw  thrashed;  the  crew  sprang  to  weather 
and  lee  braces.  The  Pole  Star  started  back  over  the 
old  pathway  on  the  trackless  ocean.  Her  compass 
point  had  been  given  as  east. 

It  was  a  hushed  company  that  gathered  about  the 
table  that  night  in  the  steerage  of  the  Pole  Star. 
The  change  of  course,  the  gamming  by  the  Japanese 
sealer,  the  mystery  of  the  skipper's  actions — all  these 
drove  silence  into  the  mates'  hearts. 

Stirling  and  Cushner  soon  departed  and  left  the 
first  and  second  engineer  to  their  thoughts. 

The  two  seamen,  who  had  found  a  tie  in  common, 
strode  to  the  forepeak  of  the  whaler,  lighted  their 
pipes  from  the  same  match,  and  stared  out  over  the 
dark  velvet  of  the  North  Pacific. 

Cushner  dragged  on  his  stem  for  a  long  five 
minutes.  He  was  awakened  to  speech  by  the  striking 
of  the  ship's  bell  forward  when  the  lookout  lifted 
a  marlinespike  from  the  belfry  and  chimed  two  short 
strokes,  repeated  by  two  more. 

"Four  bells!"  declared  the  Yankee.  "She's  four 
bells,  Stirling.  Four  bells,  an'  we're  going  back. 
Wouldn't  wonder  if  we  make  California  for  our  first 
landfall." 

Stirling  squared  his  shoulders,  removed  his  pipe 
from  his  mouth,  and  stared  at  the  glowing  bowl.  He 


ON  A  LOWER  BUNK  61 

pressed  the  coals  down  with  his  broad  thumb, 
wheeled  sharply,  and  glared  aft.  His  face  hardened 
as  he  made  out  a  shadow  on  the  poop,  and  tried  to 
discern  if  it  were  Marr.  A  swing  of  the  ship,  the  lower- 
ing of  the  mainsail  at  the  sheet,  blotted  out  his  view. 

He  turned  and  gripped  Cushner's  arm.  "We're 
not  going  to  Frisco,"  said  the  Ice  Pilot.  "We're 
headed  for  Dutch  Pass  and  the  Bering  Sea.  We're  a 
point  south  of  the  true  course  for  that,  but  Marr  is 
taking  advantage  of  the  drift." 

"Why  didn't  he  go  through  one  of  the  outer 
straits?  There's  plenty  by  the  Rat  Group." 

"Perhaps  he  wants  to  coal  at  Unalaska.  He 
could  take  aboard  fifty  tons  there." 

"How  about  the  ice?" 

"It  hasn't  cleared  yet.  It  lies  about  ten  knots 
to  the  south'ard  of  the  Pribilofs.  It'll  break  up  and 
clear  within  a  week,  though.  It  always  does." 

Cushner  nodded.  He  held  a  wholesome  respect 
for  Stirling's  ice  knowledge.  The  pilot  had  no  peer 
when  it  came  to  working  through  the  loose  floes  or 
finding  a  lane  to  the  northward.  These  lanes  were 
both  dangerous  and  deceptive,  and  many  led  to 
thicker  floes  and  barren  ice. 

"We'll  soon  be  in  the  ice?"  asked  the  second 
mate. 

"Five  days,  allowing  for  a  day's  stop  at  Unalaska. 
First  comes  the  light  floes  and  the  whale  slick.  After- 
ward is  the  barrier  line  which  stretches  to  the  Pole. 
It  starts  to  open  and  break.  Through  these  lanes 


62  THE  ICE  PILOT 

the  whales  go  into  the  Arctic.  There's  usually  a  big 
jam  at  Bering  Strait.  The  current  sets  east  by  north 
in  summer  and  south  by  west  in  the  fall.  There  are 
no  bergs  north  of  the  Aleutians  or  west  of  Point 
Barrow.  Leastwise,  I  never  saw  any!" 

"  People  always  talk  about  the  bergs  of  the  Arctic." 

Stirling  nodded.  "I  know  that,"  he  said  with 
positive  tones.  "The  reason  is  not  hard  to  find. 
There's  bergs  where  there's  glaciers.  There's  any 
number  of  big  fellows  on  the  lower  Alaskan  coast. 
These  bergs  melt  in  the  warm  Japan  Current.  The 
harbour  of  Unalaska  and  the  strait  at  Dutch  Pass 
never  freezes.  That's  on  account  of  the  same 
current." 

"  But  the  Arctic  bergs,  Stirling?" 

"There's  very  few  in  the  western  Arctic.  There's 
no  glaciers  along  the  Northern  coast  of  Alaska  and 
Canada.  There's  a  few  on  the  Siberian  coast.  The 
land  is  all  low.  The  big  floes — some  of  them  a 
century  old — resemble  small  bergs.  That's  the 
reason  for  the  mistake  made  by  Northern  travellers." 

Stirling  turned  and  tapped  his  pipe  against  the 
rail  then  pocketed  it  and  glanced  aft.  There  was  no 
sign  on  the  poop  of  any  watcher  save  the  wheelsman, 
whose  eyes  were  glued  ahead. 

Cushner  yawned.  "It's  Whitehouse's  watch," 
he  said.  "I'm  going  to  turn  in.  Good-night!" 

Stirling  followed  the  second  mate  into  the  galley 
cabin,  and  climbed  into  his  bunk  with  a  tired  glance 
at  the  compass  point.  The  Pole  Star  was  headed 


ON  A  LOWER  BUNK  63 

on  the  same  course  as  given  when  they  left  the 
Japanese  sealer.  The  wind  had  veered  and  now 
swung  from  over  the  Aleutian  Islands — fifty  miles 
to  the  northward.  It  was  slightly  tempered  with 
ice.  Stirling  closed  his  porthole  and  rolled  over  to 
sleep. 

He  was  awakened  at  midnight,  and  the  change  in 
the  watch,  by  Cushner.  The  second  mate  held  a 
cautious  finger  over  his  mouth  as  he  finished  shaking 
Stirling's  shoulder. 

"Come  on  deck,"  the  Yankee  whispered.  "Put 
on  some  clothes  and  hurry.  I  got  to  relieve  White- 
house." 

Stirling  rolled  from  his  bunk,  stood  swaying  on  the 
deck,  and  drew  on  part  of  his  clothes.  He  finished 
by  buttoning  a  great  sea  coat  about  his  sturdy  form 
and  clapping  a  cap  down  over  his  ears.  Already 
the  temperature  had  fallen  to  a  marked  degree.  He 
emerged  to  the  waist  of  the  whaler  and  stood  breath- 
ing great  gulps  of  Arctic-tinged  air  which  sent  the 
wine  of  living  through  his  veins.  He  felt  more  of  a 
man  than  he  had  since  his  last  venture  in  the  Bering. 

Cushner  touched  his  elbow.  "Come  forward/' 
the  mate  said,  softly.  "  Get  under  the  lee  of  the  deck 
house  and  then  the  foresail.  Don't  make  any  noise." 

The  watch  on  deck  had  surged  forward  to  the  cap- 
stan, and  some  of  the  watch  below  were  climbing  up 
through  the  booby  hatch.  Others  were  gathered 
about  the  form  of  the  sailor  who  had  been  in  the 
Frisco  room.  He  lay  across  the  soiled  planks  of  the 


64  THE  ICE  PILOT 

forecastle,  his  arms  stretched  out,  his  legs  extended 
and  resting  on  the  edge  of  a  lower  bunk. 

Stirling  brushed  aside  the  seamen  who  had  gathered 
about  the  booby  hatch.  The  Ice  Pilot  descended 
backward  and  stood  in  the  gloom  of  the  forecastle. 
A  single  electric  globe  was  hung  over  a  molasses 
barrel  at  the  heel  of  the  foremast.  Its  light  was  far 
too  pale  to  bring  out  the  details. 

"What  happened?"  asked  Stirling,  grimly. 

A  dock  rat,  who  had  been  shamming  sickness  dur- 
ing the  voyage,  thrust  out  a  frowsy  head  from  the  fore- 
peak  and  said:  "The  crew  beat  him  up.  They  say 
he's  a  government  spy.  They  say  he's  goin'  to  queer 
the  skipper's  game  with  th'  seals.  He  looks  it — he 
does!" 

Stirling  stooped  and  felt  of  the  sailor's  wrist.  He 
examined  a  bruise  on  the  right  temple  then  straight- 
ened and  glanced  up  through  the  booby  hatch 
toward  Cushner. 

"Go  aft,"  he  said,  "and  tell  Mr.  Marr  to  give 

you  the  medicine  chest.  Tell  him  that What 

does  this  fellow  call  himself?" 

"Eagan,"  said  the  dock  rat;  "Mike  Eagan,  so  he 
says,  Mr.  Stirling." 

"Tell  Mr.  Marr  that  a  seaman  named  Eagan  was 
struck  by  a  block.  Don't  tell  him  what  happened — 
yet.  I'm  going  to  look  out  for  Eagan!  If  he  repre- 
sents the  United  States  he  has  got  to  be  protected 
north  of  53°  as  well  as  south  of  that  latitude!" 

Cushner  hurried  aft  and  mounted  the  lee  poop  steps. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE    POLAR    BARRIER 

STIRLING  had  finished  his  examination  of  the 
seaman's  wound  by  the  time  Cushner  returned 
from  aft  with  the  medicine  chest.  This  con- 
tained bandages  and  crude  cures  which  had  the  merit 
of  being  overly  strong. 

The  Ice  Pilot  washed  the  wound  with  heavy 
fingers  and  pressed  on  a  pad  of  salve  which  was 
rank  with  iodoform  and  arnica.  He  glanced  keenly 
at  Cushner,  as  Eagan  sat  up  and  stared  about  the 
forecastle  with  bewildered  eyes. 

"What  did  the  old  man  say?"  asked  Stirling. 

"Not  much!  Said  the  crew  of  this  ship  looked 
able  to  dodge  blocks/' 

Stirling  stooped  to  Eagan.  "Who  struck  you?" 
he  inquired,  feelingly. 

The  seaman  pressed  his  left  hand  to  the  bandage, 
then  eyed  his  fingers.  He  gathered  his  senses, 
frowned  deeply,  staring  about  the  empty  bunks,  and 
up  through  the  opening  to  the  deck.  Faces  were 
pressed  there,  faces  curious  and  hard. 

"I  wasn't  struck!" 

The  seaman's  voice  carried  the  lie  in  its  tones. 
"  I  fell  down  over  a  bucket,"  he  continued.  "  Slipped, 

65 


66  THE  ICE  PILOT 

I  guess.  Must  have  hit  the  corner  of  the  molasses 
barrel.  It's  deuced  sharp,  it  is." 

Stirling  removed  a  small  portion  of  salve  from  a 
can,  spread  it  upon  a  piece  of  paper,  and  handed 
it  to  the  seaman  with  steady  fingers. 

"You  lie!"  he  said  with  clenched  teeth.  "You 
lie  about  falling  down.  Remember  that  it  may 
happen  again." 

Eagan  squared  his  jaw  and  glanced  for  a  second 
time  toward  the  booby  hatch  then  he  rubbed  his 
hands  together,  reached  and  took  the  salve  offered 
by  Stirling. 

"  I'll  tend  to  the  next  time,"  he  said,  huskily.  "  I'll 
tend  to  it!  I  don't  need  no  afterguard  to  fight  my 
battles.  I  can  lick  any  three  men  of  this  crew,  Mr. 
Stirling." 

The  Ice  Pilot  turned,  strode  across  the  rude  planks 
of  the  forecastle,  and  mounted  the  ladder  to  the  deck. 
Cushner  removed  the  medicine  chest  from  beneath 
his  arm  and  started  aft  with  it. 

"Hold  on,"  said  Stirling.     "Just  a  minute,  Sam!" 

The  second  mate  turned. 

"Don't  say  anything  more  to  Marr.  Just  give 
him  the  chest  and  meet  me  in  the  waist.  We'll  have 
a  smoke  over  this.  That  crew  look  as  if  they  were 
in  earnest.  They'll  murder  Eagan  if  he  don't  keep 
his  eyes  peeled." 

The  mate  bobbed  his  head  and  climbed  the  weather 
poop  steps  as  Marr  appeared  at  the  side  of  the  wheels- 
man and  stared  over  the  canvas  rail.  His  eyes 


THE  POLAR  BARRIER  67 

locked  with  Stirling's  and  were  unable  to  hold  the  Ice 
Pilot's  accusing  scrutiny.  Already  and  before  enter- 
ing the  Bering  Sea,  there  was  a  full  crop  of  suspicion 
and  cross-purpose  sowed  upon  the  Pole  Star. 

Cushner  moved  to  the  rail  as  Marr  disappeared 
in  the  gloom.  The  two  seamen  lighted  pipes  and 
stared  out  over  the  Northern  sea.  A  nip  was  in  the 
air,  and  the  higher  stars  shone  with  frosty  effulgence. 

"I've  got  to  take  the  poop,"  said  Cushner,  folding 
close  his  pea-jacket  and  glancing  aft.  "Whitehouse 
has  gone  into  the  galley.  Marr  won't  stand  for  a 
watch  alone;  he'll  probably  go  below." 

Stirling  shrugged  his  broad  shoulders,  pressed  the 
bowl  of  his  pipe,  then  blew  upon  his  thumb  with 
thoughtful  air. 

"I'm  kinda  summing  things  up,  Sam.  First  the 
shanghai  party;  then  the  seaman  who  wanted  to 
come  aboard.  Then,  Sam,  there's  the  mystery  of  the 
gamming  by  the  Jap.  All  looks  as  if  Marr  has  a 
fixed  purpose.  Looks  like  a  crooked  compass  point 
to  steer  by!" 

"Darn  crooked!" 

Stirling  wound  his  strong  fingers  about  the  second 
mate's  arm.  "I'm  a  simple  sailorman,"  he  said, 
heavily.  "I've  sailed  the  Arctic  and  the  Bering  and 
the  North  Pacific,  man  and  boy,  for  thirty  years.  I 
have  no  kith  or  kin.  I've  one  star  to  guide.  That's 
truth  and  right  doing,  Sam.  It's  over  there!" 

The  Ice  Pilot  pointed  along  the  leader  stars  of  the 
Great  Dipper  and  notched  his  fingernail  on  the 


68  THE  ICE  PILOT 

lodestar.  "That's  my  guide,"  he  said.  "I  play 
square!  I  never  made  anything  much  by  playing 
square,  but  I'm  going  to  steer  my  course  by  that  light 
point.  Marr  won't  mislead  me  a  quarter  point." 

"Spoken  fair!"  declared  Cushner.  "You  can  call 
on  me." 

The  mate  vanished  in  the  gloom  of  the  waist. 

Stirling  dragged  on  his  pipe,  held  it  out,  tapped 
it  against  the  rail  and  dumped  the  glowing  coals 
overside  with  a  sweeping  motion.  He  paused  at 
the  door  to  his  galley  cabin.  The  ship  was  plunging 
eastward  with  her  screw  turning  over  at  three- 
quarter  speed.  A  soft  halo  capped  the  funnel,  like 
the  tip  of  an  ashless  cigar,  and  the  throbbing  shook 
the  deck  which  was  canted  ever  so  slightly  under 
the  influence  of  the  northeast  wind. 

"Headin'  full  and  by,"  said  Stirling.  "We're 
making  for  Dutch  Pass.  I'll  be  glad  to  see  the  ice. 
Somehow  or  other  that  Bering  always  seemed  like 
a  man's  sea." 

The  days  which  followed  the  assault  upon  Eagan 
were  hard  ones  for  the  mixed  crew  of  the  Pole  Star. 
The  course  of  the  whaler  was  into  the  teeth  of  a  wind 
which  swung  over  the  watches  from  point  to  point. 

The  night  between  the  spume-filled  days  revealed 
the  stars  overhead  in  all  their  Northern  glory — steel 
pointed  they  seemed.  Within  them  and  over  the 
Northern  world  a  pale  sheen  glowed,  and  vanished 
and  glowed  again.  This  was  the  reflection  of  the 
aurora  upon  the  great  north  barrier. 


THE  POLAR  BARRIER  69 

Fur  coats,  skin  boots,  woollen  socks  with  moss 
filling,  mittens,  and  watch  caps  were  broken  from  the 
slop-chest  and  distributed  to  the  crew. 

At  high  noon  of  the  third  day  from  the  gamming 
by  the  Japanese  sealer,  Stirling  mounted  to  the 
crow's-nest,  paused  on  its  edge  for  a  glance  at  the 
deck,  then  dropped  down  into  a  snug,  far-swinging 
berth  from  which  he  had  command  of  a  hundred 
leagues  of  icy  water. 

He  reached  and  secured  a  pair  of  twelve-diameter 
glasses  which  had  been  placed  in  a  small  chart  rack, 
rested  his  elbows  on  the  rim  of  the  crow's-nest,  and 
swept  the  horizon  with  keen  eyes. 

Mile  by  mile  he  searched  for  signs  of  whale  slick 
or  spout,  but  none  showed,  then  he  turned  and 
squinted  ahead.  Two  needlelike  peaks  showed 
well  to  the  eastward.  They  were  the  highest  points 
of  the  Aleutian  group,  and  marked  the  pass  through 
to  the  Bering  Sea. 

The  day  unrolled  and  lifted  the  archipelago  up  and 
into  the  Northern  sky.  It  seemed  a  white-robed 
mountain  chain — with  each  spire  and  crag  forming 
the  teeth  of  a  giant  saw.  A  rose  light  gleamed  and 
reddened  this  barrier  as  the  sun  rimmed  the  Western 
world.  The  light  paled  to  a  flamingo  and  then  to 
purple  night  as  the  ship  drove  on. 

It  was  midnight,  with  Whitehouse  and  Marr 
standing  watch  on  the  poop,  and  Stirling  and  Cush- 
ner  in  the  crow's-nest,  when  they  reached  the  over- 
hanging shadow  of  the  pass  to  the  Bering.  The  ship 


7o  THE  ICE  PILOT 

steadied,  swung,  then  darted  under  the  lee  of  a  barren 
island;  the  strait  with  its  score  of  sharp  turnings  lay 
ahead. 

They  passed  the  entrance  to  Dutch  Harbor  and 
Unalaska,  raised  the  Rock  of  the  Bishop,  sheered  and 
drove  with  all  steam  through  the  narrow  outlet  to 
the  strait,  entering  at  morning  the  waters  of  the 
Bering. 

Stirling  breathed,  for  the  first  time  sure  of  sea 
room.  Raising  his  glasses,  he  greeted  the  morning  sun 
that  slanted  cold  and  bright  along  the  arctic  waters 
which  rose  and  fell  in  slow  gliding.  He  lowered  his 
elbows  and  leaned  far  out  over  the  crow's-nest  edge, 
studying  the  small  patches  of  spring  ice  through 
which  the  ship's  sharp  prow  cut  like  a  knife  going 
through  satin. 

Floes,  in  the  form  of  old  "grandfathers,"  were 
passed  to  starboard  and  port.  These  had  drifted 
with  the  current  down  through  the  Bering  Strait 
and  were  destined  to  melt  in  the  warm  waters  of  the 
Japan  Current.  Some  were  small  cakes,  which  had 
been  formed  that  winter,  and  upon  some  of  these 
arctic  birds  and  hair  seals  sported. 

A  larger  formation  appeared  ahead — part  of  the 
great  North  pack.  Walrus  and  polar  bear  dove  over- 
side as  the  whaler  bore  down  upon  this  floe,  sheered, 
and  entered  a  wide  lane  leading  toward  the  north 
and  east. 

"Take  the  ship ! "  called  Marr  from  the  poop.  "  It's 
your  ship  from  now  on,  Mr.  Stirling." 


THE  POLAR  BARRIER  71 

The  Ice  Pilot  leaned  over  the  edge  of  the  crow's- 
nest.  "Where  are  you  headin'  for?"  he  asked  with 
a  stout  laugh.  "  I  don't  know  your  compass  point. 
You  didn't  tell  me." 

"Tie  to  the  ice — the  pack!"  Marr  had  consulted 
the  binnacle  before  giving  the  order. 

Stirling  chuckled  like  a  big  boy,  turned  in  his 
narrow  quarters,  and  crooked  his  elbows  with  the 
glasses  clasped  in  his  hands.  He  studied  the  currents 
and  the  drift  of  the  lighter  floes,  sniffed  the  wind,  then 
swung  his  eyes  from  northeast  to  northwest. 

"Hard  astarboard!"  he  called  down  to  the  quar- 
termaster. "  Put  her  hard  astarboard." 

"Hard  astarboard,"  rolled  up  to  the  crow's-nest. 
"She's  hard  astarboard,  sir!"  the  wheelsman  cor- 
rected. 

"Steady  now.  Steady!  Over  with  it.  Now 
steady.  Port!  Port!  Hard  aport!  Stead-y  thar!" 


CHAPTER  X 

TO   THE    LAST   DAY 

THE  Pole  Star  threaded  the  ice  floes  like  a 
dancer  on  a  polished  floor.  She  drove  all 
that  day  north  and  east;  she  crashed  through 
new  ice;  she  dodged  the  ancient  floes  and  worked 
into  the  pack  and  through  the  lanes  under  the  mas- 
terful handling  of  the  Ice  Pilot,  who  sought  no  rest. 
Coffee  was  brought  to  him  by  the  galley  boy.  With 
this,  and  now  and  then  a  drag  from  his  pipe,  he  held 
down  three  watches  until  morning  broke  and  re- 
vealed to  the  east  the  higher  line  of  the  barrier  be- 
yond which  the  ship  could  not  go. 

"Pack  ahead!"  he  announced,  turning  and  staring 
shrewdly  toward  Marr  who  stood  with  Cushner  on 
the  poop.  "Yon's  the  North  pack!" 

Marr  lifted  his  face  and  returned  the  stare,  then 
dropped  his  eyes  under  the  steady  scrutiny  and  con- 
sulted Cushner. 

Stirling  swung  and  rimmed  the  white  line  without 
glasses.  He  knew  it  of  old  and  knew  that  it  was  too 
early  to  find  a  lane  leading  north  or  east.  The 
ancient  floes  were  still  cemented  together  in  an  un- 
yielding mass.  Upon  them  snow  glistened,  and 
pools  of  fresh  water  showed. 

72 


TO  THE  LAST  DAY  73 

"Tie  to  the  pack!"  called  Marr.  "Pick  out  a 
place  to  get  water.  Find  a  hummock  we  can  lash 
to.  We'll  lie  here  a  while ! " 

Into  a  tiny  bight  of  open  water,  sheltered  on  three 
sides  by  ancient  ice,  Stirling  drove  the  Pole  Star. 
Here  she  was  lashed  to  a  hummock  by  a  hawser  which 
three  of  the  crew  carried  overside  and  hitched  in  a 
bowline  of  staunch  hemp. 

The  seamen  and  boat  steerers  swarmed  over  the 
whaler's  rail  and  stretched  themselves  by  a  swift 
run  upon  the  ice.  They  caught  a  hose  thrown  to 
them  and  carried  its  end  to  a  pool  of  fresh  water 
which  had  been  formed  by  melting  snow. 

The  pump  clanked,  the  deck  tanks  were  filled, 
and  the  first  engineer,  assisted  by  the  engine-room 
force,  started  work  on  a  boiler  which  had  three  leaking 
tubes  in  the  tube  sheet.  The  smallest  of  their  number 
crawled  through  the  manhole  and  started  clipping 
the  scale,  his  tapping  sounding  throughout  the  ship. 

Stirling  descended  from  the  crow's-nest,  after  a 
last  glance  toward  the  northeast.  There  floe  ice, 
packed  and  cemented  together,  extended  to  the  cold 
rim  of  the  horizon,  with  no  sign  of  lanes.  The  warm 
sun  of  the  day  and  its  work  was  undone  each  night 
by  the  freezing  cold. 

Cushner  met  Stirling  at  the  rail,  thrust  out  his 
broad  hand,  and  smiled  proudly. 

"Fine  ice  work!"  said  the  second  mate.  "I 
knew  you  could  do  it.  Marr  was  watching  you  all 
the  time!" 


74  THE  ICE  PILOT 

"Does  he  know  anything  about  ice?" 

"Thundering  little!  He's  a  Baffin  Bay  man,  so 
he  says.  There's  a  lot  of  difference  between  the 
Bay  and  the  Bering." 

"Considerable!  It's  a  question  of  currents,  here. 
The  pack  is  farther  south  than  I  ever  saw  it  at  this 
time  of  the  year.  That  means  an  open  season  when 
it  breaks.  What  do  you  make  of  the  weather?" 

The  second  mate  glanced  at  the  telltale  on  the  cap 
of  the  mizzenmast.  "Good,"  he  said.  "Wind's 
swinging  to  th'  south'ard." 

"That  means  a  thaw,  Sam." 

"The  ice  is  soft  on  top.     See  the  water  holes?" 

Stirling  nodded  then  turned  and  stared  over  the 
broken  surface  where  the  crew  was  moving.  "There's 
hair  seals  aplenty,"  he  said.  "Too  bad,  Sam,  them 
ain't  fur  seals.  Maybe  Marr  would  be  satisfied  to 
stay  right  here." 

Cushner  widened  his  eyes.  "Still  thinking  of  a 
raid?"  he  inquired,  shrewdly. 

"That,  and  other  things.  Look  to  the  south'ard. 
Did  you  ever  see  better  whaling  ground?  There's 
slick  aplenty.  My,  how  I'd  like  to  lower  for  a  bow- 
head  !  They're  all  along  this  ice." 

"Nobody's  raised  any  spouts,  yet." 

"They're  there!  They  can't  get  north.  The  bar- 
rier holds  them.  It  was  just  like  this  when  we 
caught  three  big  bowheads  from  the  Mary  Foster. 
Lowered  four  boats  and  fastened  to  three  whales. 
That  was  a  great  day!" 


TO  THE  LAST  DAY  75 

The  earnestness  in  Stirling's  strong  voice  showed 
Cushner  where  his  heart  lay,  and  he  glanced  at  the 
low-swinging  sun  which  was  going  down  on  a  long 
arc  that  marked  the  end  of  a  Northern  day. 

"Good-night,"  he  said.  "Go  turn  in  and  forget 
bowheads.  I  don't  think  the  old  man  is  thinking 
about  them.  He's  full  of  seals.  He  asked  me  a 
thousand  questions  about  them.  Darn  sealing, 
says  I!  Whaling's  a  man's  game!  Many  an  old 
bowhead  has  fought  back.  Many  a  boat's  been 
smashed  by  a  bull  whale — up  here  or  in  the  South 
Pacific." 

Stirling  nodded  his  head  in  complete  understanding, 
for  he  realized  the  call  which  was  in  the  big  mate's 
blood.  He  watched  him  disappear  into  the  galley- 
house,  then  followed,  after  a  glance  about  the  deck. 
Many  of  the  crew  were  still  out  upon  the  ice. 

His  cabin  seemed  strangely  small  and  constricted, 
and  he  opened  a  porthole  which  overlooked  the 
deck  and  rail  and  sea  to  the  south.  He  examined 
his  few  possessions  with  wistful  eyes — a  bomb  gun, 
brightly  polished,  standing  in  one  corner  of  the 
cabin,  a  sextant  and  ancient  chronometer  resting 
upon  a  shelf,  a  Bowditch  and  well-thumbed  almanac 
which  comprised  his  library.  His  clothes  were  but 
few  and  worn. 

He  turned  in,  after  undressing,  snapping  off  his 
light  and  rolling  over  on  his  right  arm.  He  drowsed 
with  the  music  of  the  grinding  floes  in  his  ears,  then 
heard  a  racking  shiver  which  came  from  the  north 


76  THE  ICE  PILOT 

and  east ;  it  was  the  great  North  pack  breaking  along 
its  entire  length. 

He  awoke  like  a  startled  child.  Cushner's  pointed 
beard  was  thrust  through  the  open  porthole,  and  the 
second  mate's  wide-set  eyes  were  intent  and  hard. 

"Climb  out  of  your  bunk!"  he  said.  "Get  in 
your  boots  and  join  me  on  the  ice.  I'll  be  right 
by  the  hummock  where  the  shore  line  is." 

Stirling  hastily  dressed  and  wrapped  a  great  sea 
coat,  with  shell  buttons,  about  his  form.  He  stepped 
out  on  the  dark  deck  with  firm  stride,  glancing  in- 
tuitively aft  as  he  threw  one  leg  over  the  port  rail, 
after  rounding  the  deck  house. 

Nothing  showed  on  the  poop.  A  faint  light, 
however,  struck  upward  and  brought  out  the  lacery 
of  the  after  standing  rigging.  This  light  vanished 
suddenly,  then  a  companion  hatch  slammed. 

Stirling  dropped  to  the  ice  and  crawled  over  its 
surface  till  he  reached  a  towering  hummock.  Be- 
hind this  Cushner  was  crouching,  and  the  big  mate 
laid  a  finger  across  his  whiskered  lips. 

Stirling  knelt  upon  the  snow  and  listened.  He 
heard  the  lapping  of  the  waves  as  they  ran  up  the 
shelving  ice,  with  now  and  then  a  breaker  which 
shot  a  white  plume  starward.  The  broken  fragments 
of  the  southern  floes  ground  together,  and  the  night 
was  filled  with  a  thousand  sounds  which  blended  into 
a  roar. 

Then,  and  suddenly,  there  rose  from  the  poop  of 
the  whaler  a  shaft  of  yellow  light.  A  voice  was 


TO  THE  LAST  DAY  77 

raised,  and  the  notes  of  a  song  drifted  through  the 
open  portholes  of  the  after  cabin.     Marr  was  singing: 

"English  there  be  and  Portigee, 

Who  hang  on  the  Brown  Bear's  flank, 
And  some  be  Scot,  but  the  worst  of  the  lot — 
The  boldest  thieves  be  Yank!" 

Cushner  gripped  Stirling's  arm.  "That's  ain't 
all,"  he  said  with  a  deep  warning.  "Who  is  stand- 
ing on  the  poop?  Who's  that  in  the  shelter  of  the 
canvas,  aft — right  by  the  jack  staff?" 

Stirling  peered  out  from  behind  the  hummock, 
grasped  the  hawser,  and  drew  himself  forward.  He 
pulled  down  his  cap  and  opened  wide  his  splendid 
eyes.  Cushner  was  right.  There  was  a  figure  on 
the  poop,  and  this  figure  moved  and  came  slowly 
across  the  planks  to  the  rail  which  overlooked 
the  waist  of  the  whaler. 

Glasses  clinked  in  the  cabin.  Whitehouse  joined 
his  cockney  accents  to  a  song: 

"Oh,  I'm  th'  son  of  a  gentleman, 
For  I  takes  m'  whisky  clear — 
I  takes  m'  whisky  clear " 

The  figure  on  the  poop  leaned  over  the  rail.  Stir- 
ling strained  his  ears;  a  sob  racked  the  Arctic  air,  and 
the  figure  on  the  quarter-deck  straightened  with  a 
convulsive  shudder.  Whitehouse's  voice  broke  out 
afresh,  and  the  song  was  drunken  and  masterful. 

The  form  above  the  bold  singer  turned  away  from 


78  THE  ICE  PILOT 

the  rail  of  the  ship  and  glided  slowly  aft.  A  yellow 
light  shot  upward  as  a  companion  was  slowly  opened, 
then  this  light  was  blotted  out  degree  by  degree; 
the  companion  hatch  clicked  shut. 

Minutes  passed.  Neither  man  on  the  ice  moved; 
both  were  deep  in  thought.  The  two  facts  were 
hard  to  gather  to  the  brain:  Marr  and  Whitehouse 
were  in  the  cabin,  drinking;  another  Marr  had  stood 
upon  the  quarter-deck.  It  was  the  little  captain — 
line  for  line.  In  one  thing  only  did  it  differ — the 
racking  sob  at  the  drunken  levity  below  was  from  a 
woman's  throat.  It  was  a  protest  which  she  be- 
lieved fell  upon  the  Northern  silences. 

Stirling  sprang  to  his  feet  with  an  icy  glint  in  his 
blue  eyes. 

"We'll  fathom  that  mystery,"  he  told  Cushner. 
"We'll  fathom  it  if  it  takes  to  the  last  day  of  the 
voyage!" 


CHAPTER  XI 

BENEATH    THE    SURFACE 

THE  sun  came  up  on  a  long  slant,  to  swing 
its  southern  arc.  Glancing  from  ice  floe  to 
ice  floe,  it  seemed  a  cold  bronze  disk  placed 
in  motion  by  some  Norseman  of  the  Arctic  wilds. 

Stirling,  haggard  and  with  hot,  fevered  eyes,  sat 
at  the  steerage  table  watching  the  light  striking 
across  a  red-checked  table  cover  and  bringing  out 
the  rude  details  of  the  cabin. 

He  had  not  slept  since  seeing  that  strange  figure  on 
the  quarter-deck  of  the  whaler.  He  had  sat  erect 
throughout  the  morning  watch,  laying  facts  against 
facts,  which  seemed  to  dull  and  stupefy  his  sober 
senses. 

At  no  time  in  his  life  had  he  believed  in  the  super- 
natural. He  did  not  share  the  beliefs,  common  to  most 
seamen,  that  the  sea  held  unfathomable  mysteries. 
He  had  sniffed  often  at  the  tales  told  by  old  salts. 
Times  without  number  he  had  pointed  out  that  natural 
causes  rule  the  happenings  of  this  world.  St.  Elmo 
fire;  the  creaking  of  blocks  in  a  calm;  the  dust  on  a 
dustless  sea;  the  tapping  that  a  bolt  might  make  in  a 
hollow  spar — these  were  all  phenomena  which  could 
be  explained  by  science  or  good  common  sense. 

79 


8o  THE  ICE  PILOT 

The  spectre  on  the  poop  of  the  Pole  Star  was  as 
unexplainable  as  life  itself.  It  bore  the  shape  and 
form  of  Marr;  it  was  not  Marr,  for  the  captain  had 
been  drinking  and  singing  in  the  cabin.  Stirling 
put  trust  in  the  sound  of  the  human  voice.  It  was 
one  thing  which  could  not  easily  be  changed  or  dis- 
guised. 

He  rose,  at  six  bells,  with  a  slow  shrug  of  his  broad 
shoulders.  He  stood  a  moment  with  his  hands  grip- 
ping the  racks,  his  face  deeply  lined  with  the  ravages 
of  a  sleepless  night.  He  held  out  his  palm  and  stared 
at  it;  his  fingers  trembled  uncontrollably.  They  al- 
ways had  been  steady. 

He  made  his  way  to  the  deck  and  stood  by  the  rail 
which  was  nearest  the  great  North  pack.  The  cook, 
yawning,  was  making  fire  in  the  galley  stove.  A 
lone  "anchor  watch"  pacing  back  and  forth  at  the 
break  of  the  forecastle  head  turned  and  stared  at 
Stirling. 

The  air  was  cold  with  a  snap  of  frost.  A  gale  came 
from  the  south  and  west  with  a  puff  that  ground 
the  loose  floes  together.  North,  to  the  slaty  horizon, 
stretched  the  broken  surface  of  the  ice  field.  It  had 
a  sound  of  its  own — a  grind  and  a  creaking  like  a 
soul  in  agony. 

Stirling  rested  his  hands  on  the  rail  and  stared 
downward.  The  whaler  surged  against  the  shelving 
ice,  steadied,  then  surged  back  again.  Seals  peered 
curiously  from  the  depths  of  the  Bering.  Some 
scrambled  from  the  floes  and  plumped  into  the  icy 


BENEATH  THE  SURFACE  81 

water.  Walruses  were  upon  the  pack.  They  had 
broken  through  the  thin  ice  formed  overnight, 
and  their  whiskers  and  tusks  were  white  with  hoar 
frost. 

Stirling  stared  aloft,  then  shuddered  slightly  and 
drew  his  great  coat  close  about  him.  The  ratlines 
and  standing  rigging,  the  downhauls  and  halyards 
formed  a  ghostly  tapestry,  like  the  gossamer  web 
of  some  forest  glade. 

He  raised  his  hands,  breathed  upon  them  to 
secure  circulation,  slowly  climbed  the  rail,  and 
reached  for  the  shrouds,  and  thrusting  his  feet 
through  the  chains  he  mounted  until  he  reached  the 
Jacob's  ladder.  Going  over  this  he  leaned  far  out- 
board, glanced  down  at  the  deck,  then  finished  the 
climb  to  the  crow's-nest  which  was  coated  with  frost. 

Some  whim  of  the  current  had  cleared  the  sea  to 
the  south  and  east.  It  was  as  if  a  broom  had  swept 
through  the  pile  of  a  purple  carpet.  The  floes  which 
had  broken  from  the  main  pack  had  been  whisked 
southward  to  melt  in  the  warm  waters  of  the  north 
Pacific.  Occasionally,  however,  a  hoary  old 
"grandpa"  went  drifting  by  with  its  load  of  walrus 
and  hair  seals,  while  over  them  hovered  gulls  and 
other  birds. 

Stirling  narrowed  his  eyes  and  searched  long  and 
carefully  for  some  sign  of  another  whaler.  The  sea- 
son was  an  early  one.  Bowheads  were  to  be  ex- 
pected in  such  waters;  the  whale  slick  which  showed 
marked  their  feeding  ground.  He  saw  no  sign  of 


82  THE  ICE  PILOT 

sail  or  smoke.  A  slight  haze  to  the  southward 
marked  the  smoky  sea  where  the  chilled  waters  of  the 
Bering  met  the  first  warm  current  which  seeped 
through  the  passes  of  the  Aleutian  Group. 

Climbing  from  the  crow's-nest,  Stirling  swung  out 
over  the  ladder  and  smiled  slightly  as  he  saw  a 
patient  fisherman,  in  the  shaggy  form  of  a  polar 
bear,  all  too  intent  upon  the  circular  opening  of  a 
seal's  hole  through  the  ice. 

A  whiff  of  galley  smoke  and  the  rattle  of  falling 
ice  from  the  shrouds  disturbed  the  fisherman.  He 
raised  his  yellow  snout,  blinked  his  tiny  eyes,  and 
was  off  with  a  lumbersome  trot  toward  the  shelter 
of  higher  hummocks  in  the  east. 

Cushner  appeared  like  a  giant  who  had  slept 
without  turning  over.  He  lifted  his  long  arms, 
stretched,  pointed  his  icicle-sharp  beard  aloft,  and 
held  his  mouth  open  as  he  stared  at  Stirling  swinging 
down  the  shrouds. 

" By  the  stars,  old  man!"  he  exclaimed.  "You're 
an  early  bird.  Ain't  more  than  seven  bells,  if  it's 
that.  Raised  any  bowheads  yet?" 

Stirling  sprang  from  the  rail  to  the  deck  and 
rubbed  his  frosted  hands.  He  stepped  to  Cush- 
ner's  side  and  clapped  him  on  the  back.  "Not 
yet!"  he  said.  "No  whales,  but  there's  an  ocean  of 
fine  slick.  It's  a  whaling  day  if  ever  there  was  one." 

"Waal,"  yawned  Cushner.  "Waal,  I'll  call  the 
watches  and  get  ready.  We  might  as  well  drop 
away  from  the  pack." 


BENEATH  THE  SURFACE  83 

Without  consulting  Marr,  the  second  mate  gave 
the  order  to  bring  in  the  hawser  and  hoist  easy  canvas 
on  the  fore  and  main.  The  Pole  Star  sheered  and 
drifted  toward  the  southward.  Stirling  emerged 
from  the  galley  house,  wiped  his  mouth  with 
the  back  of  his  hand,  felt  the  glow  of  the  strong 
coffee  he  had  drunk,  then  crossed  the  deck  and 
mounted  again  to  the  crow's-nest  where  he  took 
position  to  observe  any  signs  of  whales  or  white 
water. 

The  whaler  was  hove  to,  with  her  yards  braced, 
and  steam  pluming  from  the  pipe  after  the  raking 
funnel;  the  boats  were  swung  outboard;  the  gear 
was  gone  over  and  the  water  kegs  filled. 

Marr  appeared  at  one  bell.  He  glanced  toward 
the  distant  pack,  frowned  slightly,  then  leaned  over 
the  rail  of  the  quarter-deck.  "Who  gave  the  order 
to  drop  down  here?"  he  asked  Cushner. 

The  second  mate  stood  erect  in  the  starboard- 
waist  boat.  "  I  did,"  he  said,  slowly.  "  I  thought, 
seeing  as  how  there  was  whale  slick,  that  we  better 
get  in  position  for  lowering.  We  could  only  lower 
three  boats  where  we  were." 

Marr  motioned  for  Whitehouse,  who  sprang  up 
the  weather  poop  steps,  and  the  two  men  went  aft 
behind  the  canvas  screen.  Cushner  glanced  toward 
Stirling  in  the  crow's-nest,  and  Stirling  nodded.  He 
seemed  to  say  without  words  that  he  would  stick 
by  the  second  mate's  statement. 

Whitehouse  appeared  and  glanced  upward.  "What 


84  THE  ICE  PILOT 

d'ye  make  out?"  he  asked,  pointing  over  the  ship's 
rail.  "  'Ow's  the  sea  to  lee'ard?  " 

"Plenty  of  signs,"  said  Stirling.  "There's  a  sail 
far  down  toward  that  big  floe.  Looks  like  the  first 
of  the  Frisco  fleet.  She's  headin'  for  the  ice.  Likely 
there'll  be  more.  Old  'Hank'  Peterson  and  his 
Beluga  always  fasten  around  about  here.  That 
looks  like  the  Belugas  fore-topsail.  It's  dirty 
enough!" 

The  Beluga,  so  it  proved,  tacked  and  went  about 
with  its  long  row  of  white  boats  showing  clear  and 
distinct  in  the  Northern  sunlight.  Peterson  was 
cruising  over  known  ground.  He  drove  the  ship 
away  from  the  pack  and  vanished  through  the 
smoke  of  the  seas  with  the  patches  of  his  ancient 
sails  allowing  the  last  sight  of  him. 

Another  ship  climbed  up  over  the  rim  of  the  world. 
Smoke  showed  in  a  long  slaty  line,  and  soon  was 
revealed  the  fine  sheer  and  trim  rig  of  a  revenue  cutter. 
Stirling  lowered  his  glasses  with  a  dry  smile,  and 
stared  toward  the  whaler's  poop.  Marr  stood  there 
with  feet  braced  and  a  telescope  clapped  to  his  eye. 

The  little  skipper  muttered  vehemently  as  he 
wheeled  swiftly  and  strode  to  the  rail.  "What 
ship's  that?"  he  called  up  to  Stirling. 

"The  United  States  revenue  cutter  Bear,  Mr. 
Marr!" 

The  captain  frowned,  turned,  and  looked  over  the 
ice-dotted  waters.  "Which  way  is  she  heading 
now?"  he  asked. 


BENEATH  THE  SURFACE  85 

"Same  course.  She's  sizing  us  up.  Likely  she'll 
skirt  the  pack,  back  and  forth,  until  she  finds  a  lane 
to  the  east.  She  always  does." 

"How  many  cutters  come  North?" 

"Usually  three — the  Bear  and  the  Wolverene  and 
the  Northern  Star." 

Stirling's  voice  contained  a  shaded  warning,  as  he 
leaned  over  the  edge  of  the  crow's-nest  and  watched 
Marr  intently.  The  little  captain  was  plainly  dis- 
turbed. He  coiled  and  uncoiled  his  well-manicured 
fingers,  stroked  his  smooth  chin,  then  went  aft 
with  a  quick  stride  and  disappeared  through  the 
cabin  companion. 

Cushner  climbed  up  the  fore  shrouds  and  dropped 
alongside  Stirling.  Pinching  the  Ice  Pilot's  arm,  he 
chuckled  as  he  twirled  the  knob  of  the  glasses  and 
extended  his  arm  outward. 

"She's  th'  Bear,  all  right,"  he  said  after  a  careful 
glance.  "She's  giving  us  a  good  lookin'  over.  We're 
new  to  her.  I  reckon  th'  whaleboats  will  satisfy  her. 
There's  nothin'  to  excite  suspicion." 

The  Bear  slowly  vanished  into  the  mist,  and  a  line 
of  dark  smoke  marked  her  going. 

Cushner  laid  down  the  glasses  and  exclaimed 
through  his  beard:  "They  ought  to  know  you,  old 
man!" 

"Not  in  this  rig,"  Stirling  said.  "Last  time  I 
saw  the  Bear,  I  was  pilot  of  the  Mary  Foster.  They 
gammed  us  the  other  side  of  St.  Lawrence  Island. 
They  were  looking  for  poachers.  Somebody  had 


86  THE  ICE  PILOT 

raided  the  northeast  point  of  St.  Paul's,  and  three 
hundred  bachelor  seals  were  missing." 

"  Fair  game,  I  say,  when  you  do  it  out  beyond  the 
three-mile  limit.  It's  just  the  same  as  highway  when 
it's  done  on  the  rookeries." 

"That's  the  way  I  think.  Marr  had  better  take 
warning.  It  would  be  a  short  shift  to  McNeal's 
Island  and  a  long  sentence  if  he  tried  anything." 

Cushner  climbed  out  of  the  crow's-nest  and  lowered 
himself  to  the  deck.  Standing  by  the  rail  he  watched 
the  crew  who  were  alert  to  raise  a  spout.  White- 
house,  at  a  suggestion  from  Marr,  had  offered  ten 
plugs  of  tobacco  and  two  square  faces  of  trade  gin 
for  the  first  blow  reported. 

The  morning  passed  without  any  sign  of  whales. 
At  two  bells  in  the  afternoon  watch  a  second  whaler 
wallowed  by  and  offered  the  signal  that  she  had 
already  fastened  and  cut  in.  A  dark  slab  of  muck 
tuck,  or  blubber,  was  dangling  from  her  stumpy  jib 
boom. 

Stirling  knew  the  ship  as  he  knew  the  palm  of  his 
strong  hand.  She  was  the  Norwhale  out  of  Frisco. 
He  called  down  her  name  and  pointed  out  her  aged 
captain  to  the  crew  of  the  Pole  Star. 

"The  luckiest  man  in  the  North!"  Stirling  ex- 
claimed. "Already  fastened  and  lookin'  for  more. 
Keep  your  eyes  peeled  to  lee'ard,  boys.  There's  an 
ocean  of  slick  and  plenty  of  signs." 

The  sun  was  rolling  into  the  west  when  a  stir 
passed  through  the  Pole  Star.  A  voice  forward  had 


BENEATH  THE  SURFACE  87 

half  shouted,  then  died  to  a  whisper.  One  lookout 
pointed  far  down  to  the  south  and  east;  Stirling 
swung  his  glasses  and  studied  the  wide  surface  of 
the  Bering.  He  saw  a  spout  which  proved  to  be 
waves  dashed  from  the  weather  side  of  a  floe,  and  sea 
gulls  hovering  over  an  oily  patch.  He  tested  the 
direction  of  the  wind  by  holding  his  finger  aloft, 
and  stared  at  the  telltale  which  draped  from  the 
mizzen  top. 

Clapping  the  glasses  to  his  eyes,  he  swung  about 
in  a  slow  circle.  Due  south,  he  steadied  and  grew 
rigid.  He  saw  the  low  bore  of  water  which  marked 
the  presence  of  some  animal  beneath  the  surface.  He 
closed  his  lips  in  a  hard,  firm  line;  his  face  cleared; 
his  arms  grew  rigid  as  bars  of  steel.  He  waited  with 
every  muscle  tense.  Then,  and  suddenly,  he  lowered 
the  glasses,  leaned  far  out  over  the  edge  of  the  crow's- 
nest,  and  called  loudly:  "A  blow!  A  blow!  There 
she  blows!" 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE    MANNER   OF    MAN 

THE  ship  shook  with  the  running  of  many 
men.  The  mate  sprang  to  the  shrouds  and 
shaded  his  eyes. 

"Where  away?"  called  up  Cushner. 

"Direct  to  the  south'ard!  Right  over  that  floe! 
There  she  blows  again.  There  she  blows!" 

For  a  second  time  a  bore  of  white  water  showed. 
This  was  followed  by  a  plume  of  soft  spray  which 
spurted  up  into  the  frosty  air  and  vanished  to  lee- 
ward. The  whale  was  rising  for  breath. 

"All  'ands  to  the  boats!"  This  order  was  given 
by  Whitehouse  who  stood  at  the  top  of  the  lee 
poop  steps. 

There  sounded  a  rush  along  the  deck,  and  a  snarl  of 
excited  men  tumbled  over  each  other  in  their  haste 
to  reach  the  boats.  It  was  for  all  the  world  like  being 
submarined  in  war  time. 

Stirling  scowled  down  on  the  untrained  crew,  then 
glanced  toward  the  little  skipper.  He  feared  that  the 
noise  would  gaily  the  quarry;  a  whale  has  remarkable 
hearing  in  certain  circumstances.  The  Ice  Pilot  had 
known  of  failure  to  fasten  with  a  harpoon  on  account  of 
the  striking  of  a  paddle  against  the  inner  skin  of  a  boat. 

88 


THE  MANNER  OF  MAN  89 

He  called  a  warning  and  pointed  toward  the  sea 
where  last  a  spout  had  shown.  The  crew  heeded 
this  call,  and  stood  silent  by  the  falls  of  each  boat. 

"Lower  away!"  called  out  Whitehouse. 

The  boats  splashed  into  the  sea,  the  falls  were 
loosened  from  their  eyebolts  in  bow  and  stern,  and 
long  oars  were  thrust  out  as  the  crews  swarmed  down- 
ward. 

Led  by  the  second  mate's  boat,  the  tiny  fleet 
swung  like  a  covey  of  pigeons  and  ran  before  the 
wind  with  their  single  sails  billowed  out  over  the 
lee  rails  and  their  centerboards  raised. 

Skipping  from  sea  to  sea,  as  light  as  spindrift, 
they  assumed  a  fanlike  formation  and  closed  about 
the  position  where  the  whale  had  been  seen. 

The  leading  boat,  guided  by  Cushner,  gained 
slightly  and  drew  away,  the  big  mate,  with  his  white 
beard,  standing  erect  in  the  stern.  His  hand  was 
closed  over  the  tiller,  his  eyes  glued  on  a  spot  to  lee- 
ward. 

Stirling  and  Marr,  who  had  remained  as  ship 
keepers,  with  the  cook  and  engineers,  watched  the 
arena  like  spectators  at  a  battle.  The  Ice  Pilot  had 
hastened  to  many  bowheads  and  realized  that  Cush- 
ner had  taken  the  proper  direction  and  would  most 
likely  intercept  the  whale  upon  its  next  appearance. 

A  short  wait  followed,  and  Stirling  fastened  a 
small  red  flag  to  a  signal  halyard  which  could  be 
raised  from  the  crow's-nest.  This  was  in  the  event 
that  the  whale  was  sighted  from  the  ship.  Two 


90  THE  ICE  PILOT 

jerks  would  be  the  signal  that  the  fleet  should  go  to 
leeward;  one  jerk,  into  the  wind. 

Across  the  whale  slick  the  mate's  boat  darted, 
then  came  up  and  held  its  position  with  sail  flapping. 
Cushner  drove  farther  to  the  south  where  he,  too, 
brought  his  boat  in  the  wind  and  waited. 

Marr  lowered  his  glass  and  stared  up  at  the  Ice 
Pilot.  "  It's  time,  isn't  it?"  the  captain  asked. 

"Almost,"  replied  Stirling.  "That  old  bull's 
been  down  eighteen  minutes." 

The  Ice  Pilot  replaced  his  watch  and  waited  like  a 
hunter  in  a  jungle  tree.  His  were  the  highest  eyes 
on  those  waters.  He  swept  them  across  the  sea  and 
somewhat  ahead  of  Cushner's  boat,  then  he  stiffened 
and  jerked  up  his  flag.  He  held  it  at  the  masthead, 
then  jerked  again.  The  whale  had  showed  white 
water  not  a  cable's  length  from  the  second  mate's 
boat. 

"He's  up!"  called  Stirling  in  his  excitement. 
"Sam's  right  there!" 

Cushner  caught  the  signal  from  above  the  crow's- 
nest  of  the  Pole  Star.  He  swung  his  body  and 
allowed  the  boat  to  run  before  the  wind,  peering  un- 
der the  bulging  sail  with  its  lifted  boom.  He  pointed 
and  pressed  the  tiller  handle. 

The  harpooner  of  Cushner's  boat  was  a  giant 
Kanaka.  He  was  whale  wise,  and  had  once  been 
known  to  fasten  to  a  whale  over  the  sail  of  another 
boat.  Stirling  saw  him  reach  downward,  lift  a 
heavy  harpoon,  with  its  bomb-gun  attachment,  and 


THE  MANNER  OF  MAN  91 

poise  rigidly  in  the  bow  of  the  whaleboat.  His 
bronzed  arm  was  raised  inch  by  inch.  The  small 
boat  drove  on  and  into  the  smothering  plume  of 
vapour  which  rose  out  of  the  sea  and  slick  as  the 
whale  emerged  and  exhaled  its  breath. 

Cushner's  boat  drove  onward.  The  Kanaka 
straightened,  drew  back  his  arm,  and  then  hurled 
the  heavy  harpoon  down  and  into  the  waves  as  the 
whaleboat  mounted  the  first  of  the  bore  set  up  by 
the  passage  of  the  monster. 

The  mast  of  the  boat  came  down  on  the  run,  oars 
were  thrust  outboard,  Cushner  unshipped  the  tiller 
and  hurried  forward.  The  Kanaka  passed  him, 
stooped,  and  lifted  up  a  long  steering  oar  which  he 
placed  in  the  oarlock  aft. 

Stirling  watched  the  second  mate  as  he  poised  in 
the  bow  with  a  brass  bomb  gun  under  his  arm  and 
his  eyes  glued  upon  the  coil  of  hemp  which  was 
floating  on  the  surface  of  the  sea.  The  whale  had 
been  struck,  and  it  was  sulking  just  below  the  boat, 
but  had  not  yet  sounded. 

Seconds  passed,  while  the  watchers  on  the  ship 
remained  mute  with  expectancy.  Then,  and  sud- 
denly, the  white  boat  swung,  almost  upsetting 
Cushner,  and  started  into  the  wind  with  the  speed 
of  a  swift  launch.  The  whale  had  come  to  life,  had 
recovered  from  the  stunning  blow  of  the  harpoon 
and  the  bomb,  and  was  "carrying  the  mail"  for 
the  great  North  pack,  with  the  boat  dragging  after 
it. 


92  THE  ICE  PILOT 

Cushner  motioned  aft  with  the  flat  of  his  right 
hand,  dashed  the  spray  from  his  eyes,  stooped,  and 
felt  of  the  whale  line  where  it  disappeared  over  the 
bow.  He  then  straightened  and  motioned  aft  for  a 
second  time. 

Stirling  interpreted  the  signal.  It  was  for  the 
sheet  tender  to  throw  water  into  the  tubs.  Already 
smoke  was  rising  from  the  round  wooden  butt  in  the 
bow  about  which  the  line  was  coiled. 

The  sheet  tender,  a  Frisco  dock  rat,  scooped  a  dipper 
overside,  stumbled  forward,  and  dashed  sea  water 
into  the  rapidly  uncoiling  hemp.  He  slipped  as  the 
boat  swung  over  a  wave,  and  the  dipper  flew  from 
his  hand,  dropping  into  the  larger  of  the  two  tubs. 

There  followed  a  leaping  snarl  of  inch  rope.  A 
slender  python  seemed  to  reach  and  coil  about 
Cushner  in  the  bow,  who  flung  up  his  arms  and 
dropped  the  bomb  gun.  A  noose  fastened  about 
his  waist,  and  he  was  drawn  forward  and  downward 
as  the  whale  surged  onward.  Fighting  with  all  his 
giant  strength,  he  went  over  and  then  into  the 
depth  of  the  sea. 

"Heavens!"  shouted  Marr.  "Did  you  see  that, 
Stirling?" 

The  Ice  Pilot  was  over  the  edge  of  the  crow's-nest 
and  down  the  rigging  within  the  space  of  five  seconds. 
He  struck  the  deck  and  dashed  aft.  "He's  done 
for!"  he  shouted.  "Get  up  steam  and  hurry. 
There's  only  one  chance." 

Marr  stared  at  the  Ice  Pilot.     "  Who's  giving  orders 


THE  MANNER  OF  MAN  93 

here?"  he  asked,  cuttingly.  "Let  the  fool  take  care 
of  himself.  He  picked  out  that  sheet  tender." 

Stirling  gulped,  then  clenched  his  fists  and  held 
them  out  under  the  skipper's  chin.  He  drew  them 
back  inch  by  inch.  His  emotion  was  a  compelling 
thing.  He  could  crush  the  little  skipper  with  one 
blow,  but  held  himself  in  hand  and  turned,  his  eyes 
filled  with  the  fire  of  battle. 

"Follow  me!"  he  shouted  to  two  of  the  engineers 
who  stood  in  the  waist.  "Help  lower  the  dinghy. 
The  whale's  coming  to  windward.  I  can  get  it!" 

The  tiny  boat  was  lowered  in  clumsy  fashion. 
Stirling  shoved  off  and  sat  down  to  the  oars.  Over 
his  shoulder  he  saw  the  sneering  figure  of  the  little 
skipper  standing  by  the  taffrail,  but  only  bent  his 
back  and  dug  the  oars  deeper  into  the  sea.  He 
brought  the  boat  directly  into  the  pathway  of  the 
onrushing  whale  which  had  risen  and  was  showing  a 
bent  harpoon  in  its  foam-coiled  hump. 

Dropping  the  oars,  Stirling  sprang  to  the  bow  of 
the  boat  and  lifted  a  bomb  gun  from  its  position  on 
the  starboard  side.  He  cocked  this,  and  waited, 
peering  into  the  sea.  He  straightened,  took  aim,  and 
fired  a  tonite  bomb  full  into  the  mass  which  was  rush- 
ing in  his  direction. 

The  acrid  smoke  from  the  gun  drifted  to  leeward, 
and  the  low  report  of  the  bomb's  explosion  shook  the 
sea.  Particles  of  flesh  flew  upward,  the  whale  milled 
and  rose,  then  splashed  down,  with  its  giant  flukes 
beating  the  surface  of  the  water  in  a  death  flurry. 


94  THE  ICE  PILOT 

The  small  boat  was  drawn  into  the  vortex  and  as  both 
engineers  called  a  warning,  Stirling  opened  a  pouch 
under  a  seat,  drew  out  another  bomb  and  cartridge, 
fitted  them  to  the  breech  of  the  gun,  then  waited 
grimly,  tensely.  He  no  longer  resembled  the  placid 
pilot  who  had  come  aboard  the  whaler  at  Frisco. 

The  other  boats  of  the  fleet  drove  into  the  wind 
with  their  centerboards  lowered  and  their  sheets 
close  drawn,  waiting  until  the  whale's  efforts  died, 
stroke  by  stroke.  They  took  Stirling's  signal  to 
haul  in  on  the  line  which  was  still  fastened  to  Cush- 
ner's  boat.  Foot  by  foot  it  was  drawn  upward  and 
coiled  in  the  tubs.  The  whale  was  dead  upon  the 
bottom  of  the  sea. 

Stirling  waited  until  the  ship  bore  down  upon  the 
fleet  and  thrust  her  sharp  prow  over  the  spot  where 
the  quarry  had  sunk.  He  gave  the  order  to  rig  the 
line  over  a  yardarm  and  to  attach  it  to  a  foreward 
winch.  Steam  was  turned  on  and  the  stout  hemp 
held,  although  it  was  drawn  to  pencil  thinness.  The 
carcass  of  the  whale  was  sucked  from  the  mud  and 
silt  and  lifted  surfaceward.  Foot  by  foot — fathom 
by  fathom — the  line  was  scanned.  There  sounded 
a  low  cry,  and  a  boat  steerer  pointed  downward. 
Stirling  and  the  engineers  leaned  over  the  rail  of  the 
dinghy. 

They  saw  why  the  boat  steerer  had  called  their 
attention,  and  they  blanched — strong  men  that  they 
were.  Then  they  stood  erect  and  removed  their 
caps. 


THE  MANNER  OF  MAN  95 

Cushner's  body,  looped  in  a  bight  of  the  whale 
line,  dangled  before  their  eyes,  all  life  throttled  out 
by  the  whale's  mad  strength. 

One  thing  showed  the  manner  of  man  the  second 
mate  had  been.  He  had  drawn  a  long  knife  from  a 
sheath  on  his  belt  and  held  this  gripped  firmly  in 
his  left  hand.  But  it  had  not  been  used.  The  rope 
was  unhacked.  Cushner  had  preferred  to  go  to  his 
death,  rather  than  sever  the  hemp  and  allow  the 
whale  to  escape. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

INTO   THE    ICE 

THEY  buried  the  second  mate  in  the  conven- 
tional sea  manner,  Marr  reading  the  simple 
service  from  the  Bible. 

Stirling  saw  the  sack-sewn  body  plunge  into 
the  icy  waters  of  the  Bering  Sea,  and  replaced  his 
cap  when  the  last  ripples  had  died.  He  turned  and 
glanced  upward  at  Marr,  watching  the  skipper  fold 
the  Book  and  look  over  the  rail.  The  whale  lay 
alongside  with  only  a  slight  hump  to  mark  its  bulk, 
and  in  the  centre  of  this  hump  a  harpoon  had  been 
thrust.  The  stout  iron,  of  Swedish  construction, 
was  bent  and  twisted,  and  to  it  was  fastened  a  bight 
of  inch  hemp  which  had  held  throughout  the  strug- 
gle. 

Purple  night  was  falling  when  Stirling  had  the 
whale's  body  in  a  position  for  cutting  in.  More  irons 
had  been  driven  home,  lines  were  brought  aboard 
and  fastened  to  cleats,  a  strong  hawser  was  passed 
about  the  giant  flukes. 

Cutting  in  a  whale  to  Stirling  was  like  peeling  an 
apple.  It  had  been  one  of  the  greatest  joys  the  seas 
had  granted  to  him.  It  was  the  culmination  of 
months  of  preparation  and  searching.  The  value  of 

96 


INTO  THE  ICE  97 

a  head  of  bone  was  well  up  in  the  thousands,  and 
Stirling  estimated  the  length  of  the  whale  to  be  all 
of  seventy  feet.  The  bone,  therefore,  being  in  pro- 
portion, he  expected  slabs  from  the  upper  jaw  to 
reach  fifteen  feet. 

The  waist  of  the  ship  was  cleared  of  riffraff  and 
dunnage;  a  strong  whale  tackle  was  rigged  between 
fore  and  mainmast,  one  line  of  this  tackle  being 
wound  about  the  foreward  winch.  The  other  end 
was  carried  down  the  cutting-in  stage  and  hitched 
to  a  slice  of  blubber  which  had  been  peeled  from  the 
whale's  neck.  This  slice  of  blubber  was  called  the 
blanket  piece. 

Kanakas  climbed  then  over  the  slippery  body  and 
started  work  with  blubber  spades  and  axes.  They 
severed  the  strip,  as  the  winch  was  started,  the  whale 
rolled  over  and  exposed  an  open  cut  which  banded 
its  neck.  Into  this  the  crew  slashed  until  the  back- 
bone was  reached.  They  then  climbed  aboard, 
after  rigging  a  second  line  through  a  purchase  in  the 
upper  jaw. 

"Hoist  away!"  ordered  Stirling.  A  watch  tackle 
creaked,  the  line  tightened,  and  the  upper  jaw  of  the 
monster  came  aboard  and  was  swung  over  a  spot  in 
the  waist,  lowering  to  position  when  the  tackle  was 
slacked.  The  carcass,  useless  now,  was  cast  adrift 
by  cutting  the  lines.  It  drifted  to  leeward  where 
it  was  soon  surrounded  by  polar  bears  and  screeching 
sea  gulls. 

Marr  appeared  at  the  quarter-deck  rail  and  sent 


98  THE  ICE  PILOT 

down  a  huge  jug  of  whisky,  which  the  crew  shared 
with  boisterous  shouts.  The  skipper  watched  them, 
then  shrugged  his  slight  shoulders,  glanced  at  the 
ice  to  the  northward,  and  disappeared  as  Stirling 
gave  the  order  to  clear  decks  and  cut  the  bone  from 
the  upper  jaw. 

This  baleen,  as  it  was  called,  had  to  be  split  from 
a  white  gristle  by  blubber  spades  and  knives.  The 
bone  ran  from  sixteen  feet  in  length  down  to  little 
whiskers,  and  its  value  was  all  of  five  dollars  a  pound. 

The  last  of  the  slabs  was  taken  below  to  be  stored 
in  the  forehold,  and  the  great  jaw,  after  the  cook 
had  removed  a  barrel  of  muck  tuck,  was  hoisted  over- 
board. This  sank  to  the  bottom  of  the  Bering. 
The  decks  were  then  swabbed  and  squeegeed,  and 
the  watch  on  duty  finished  cleaning  up.  It  was  mid- 
night before  Stirling  turned  toward  Whitehouse  and 
reported  that  all  was  clear. 

The  cockney  mate  climbed  from  the  dark  poop, 
took  a  turn  about  the  ship,  ran  his  fingers  over  the 
planks  and  pinrails,  and  peered  down  the  forehold. 

Then  he  came  to  Stirling  and  asked:  "  'Ow  much 
do  you  think  that  'ead  of  bone  will  weigh?" 

"All  of  twenty-two  hundred  pounds.  It's  as  big 
as  I  ever  cut  in." 

Whitehouse  glanced  aft.  "The  old  man  wasn't 
figurin'  on  that,"  he  said,  reflectively.  "  I  think  it 
was  out  of  'is  calculations.  'E's  just  confided  in 
me — not  a  watch  below — that  'e  is  up  North  for  trade 
stuff.  Also,  'e  said  there's  a  firm  of  Dundee  & 


INTO  THE  ICE  99 

Grimsby  owners  interested  in  the  voyage.  I  thought 
all  along  'e  owned  the  ship." 

Stirling  studied  the  face  of  the  mate  in  an  endeavour 
to  ascertain  if  he  were  speaking  the  truth.  White- 
house  was  far  from  stable  in  his  statements. 

"That's  news,"  said  Stirling.  "I  thought  you,  or 
somebody  else,  told  me  he  was  the  sole  owner." 

"Maybe  Cushner  told  you  that." 

"Maybe!  It  settles  a  point  or  two  I  was  trying  to 
fathom." 

Stirling  glanced  at  the  poop,  and  in  fancy  he 
thought  a  figure  appeared  there.  He  stepped  to 
one  side  of  the  galley  house  and  stared  aft.  A 
shadow  moved  against  the  canvas  screen,  a  light 
shot  skyward,  then  was  blotted  out  as  the  com- 
panion closed. 

"Marr?"  he  asked,  striding  over  to  Whitehouse. 

The  mate  grinned  and  reached  in  his  pocket  for  a 
plug  of  tobacco.  "Sure,"  he  said.  "Wo  else  could 
hit  be?  The  old  man  is  very  irregular  in  'is  'abits. 
Never  saw  any  one  like  'im.  You  never  know  where 
'e  is.  All  the  time  walking  around." 

Stirling  crammed  his  hands  into  his  pockets 
and  turned  away  from  the  mate,  but  he  paused 
at  the  door  leading  into  the  alleyway  and  his 
cabin. 

Whitehouse,  believing  Stirling  had  passed  inside, 
jerked  his  elbows,  buttoned  up  his  coat  with  care, 
smoothed  down  his  hair,  and  otherwise  spruced  him- 
self up.  Then  he  started  aft  and  mounted  the  poop 


ioo  THE  ICE  PILOT 

steps,  his  whistle  merging  into  a  low  song.     Stirling 
heard  it  and  wondered : 

"England,  oh,  my  England! 

Gone  for  many  a  day; 

I  never  knew  I  loved  you 

Until  1  sailed  away." 

The  Ice  Pilot  raised  his  brows  and  closed  his  mouth 
in  a  firm  line.  The  mate  had  revealed  another  side 
of  his  character.  He  had  come  down  into  the  waist 
of  the  ship  in  order  to  make  an  inspection,  and  was 
returning  like  a  man  who  expected  to  meet  with  a 
cheerful  welcome.  Perhaps,  decided  Stirling,  he 
had  gone  aft  and  below  in  order  to  create  an  im- 
pression. The  impression  could  hardly  be  made  upon 
Marr.  That  little  skipper  was  no  more  interested  in 
whaling  than  in  cob  fishing.  He  had  treated  the  entire 
chase  of  the  day  as  a  diversion  which  would  answer 
until  the  ice  opened  and  allowed  the  Pole  Star  to  drive 
northward  toward  some  coast  where  bigger  game 
was  waiting. 

The  morning  dawned,  warm,  gray,  and  cloud- 
shrouded.  An  east  wind  swung  over  the  North 
pack  and  loosened  the  lighter  floes.  They  drifted 
toward  the  south,  as  the  seals  gave  the  warning  of 
the  first  breaking  up  of  the  ice,  and  loud  reports 
were  heard  to  windward. 

Stirling  rolled  from  his  bunk  and  sniffed  the  air, 
pressed  his  face  to  a  porthole,  then  rapidly  dressed. 
Taking  coffee  from  the  galley  boy,  he  hurried  to  the 


INTO  THE  ICE  101 

deck  and  stared  about  him.  The  ship  was  hove  to 
in  a  position  that  commanded  a  view  of  the  pack  ice 
and  the  sea  to  the  south  and  west. 

Climbing  hand  over  hand,  Stirling  reached  the 
Jacob's  ladder,  and  then  the  crow's-nest.  He 
settled  down  and  clapped  the  glasses  to  his  eyes. 

A  voice  rose  from  the  quarter-deck,  and  increased 
in  volume  as  Stirling  still  stared  to  leeward. 

"Aloft,  there!"  Marr  shouted,  angrily.  "Hey,  you 
aloft!" 

Stirling  leisurely  removed  the  glasses  from  his  eyes 
and  glanced  downward.  He  said  nothing. 

"How's  the  ice?"  asked  the  skipper,  jerking  his 
thumb  toward  the  north  and  east.  "What  do  you 
make  of  it?" 

Stirling  turned  and  lifted  the  glasses.  "She's 
breaking,"  he  called.  "  I  see  a  few  lanes  to  the  east. 
This  wind  will  clear  things  in  a  day  or  two.  We  can 
go  then!" 

Marr  paced  the  deck,  bringing  up  against  the  rail 
on  the  ice  side  of  the  ship.  "We'll  go  now!"  he 
shouted.  "  Right  now,  if  there's  any  possible  route 
open.  I  want  to  be  at  Indian  Point  within  the  week. 
Can  you  do  it?" 

"I  can!  "said  Stirling.     "I'm- 

"A  blow!"  called  a  foremast  hand  from  the  fore- 
peak.  "A  blow!  There  she  blows!" 

Stirling  turned  and  darted  his  eyes  out  over  the 
sea  to  leeward.  He  squinted  slightly  and  saw  the 
white  vapour  of  a  huge  whale's  spout.  He  closed  his 


102  THE  ICE  PILOT 

lips  and  shaded  his  brow.  Another  blow  showed  to 
windward  of  the  first.  A  school  of  bowheads  was 
approaching  an  open  lane  to  the  north  and  the 
Arctic. 

"Stand  by  the  boats!"  shouted  Stirling,  eagerly. 
"Call  both  watches  and  stand  by!" 

Marr  stiffened  in  his  position  close  by  the  rail, 
turned,  and  glided  forward  until  he  stood  at  the 
weather  steps  which  led  to  the  waist  of  the  ship.  He 
darted  a  savage  glance  out  over  the  sea  then  fastened 
his  eyes  upon  Stirling.  "Countermand  that  order!" 
he  shouted. 

Stirling  stared  over  the  edge  of  the  crow's-nest. 
"  What's  that? "  he  asked.  "  Don't  you  know  there's 
•whales  to  leeward?  They're  making  for  the  ice. 
There's  a " 

"I  don't  give  a  darn  if  there's  a  million  whales. 
I  told  you  what  to  do.  Do  it!  I'm  captain  of  this 
ship!" 

"A  blow!"  repeated  the  foremast  hand. 

Marr  reached  and  snatched  up  a  brass  belaying 
pin  from  the  pinrail.  He  leaned  forward  after 
grasping  the  step  rail  with  his  left  hand,  and  brand- 
ished the  weapon  out  over  the  waist  of  the  ship  in 
the  direction  of  the  cry.  '"Vast  that!"  he  snarled. 
"Vast  with  you!  There's  no  need  of  yelling  your 
lungs  out!  This  ship  is  going  into  the  ice.  D'ye 
get  me?" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A    WHISPERED    WARNING 

STIRLING  climbed  over  the  edge  of  the  crow's- 
nest  and  reached  for  a  line.  He  dropped 
to  the  deck  like  a  plummet,  strode  aft  and 
mounted  the  poop,  where  Marr  stood  with  the  pin  in 
his  hand. 

The  hastily  dressed  crew  had  rushed  aft  and  were 
gathered  in  the  waist  as  Stirling  thrust  his  jaw  for- 
ward and  locked  glances  with  the  little  skipper.  An 
explosion  was  brooding;  the  foremast  hand,  who  had 
whaled  for  ten  years,  kept  repeating,  "A  blow!  A 
blow!" 

"What  d'ye  mean?"  snapped  Marr.  "What 
d'ye  mean  by  coming  up  here  without  orders?" 

Stirling's  eyes  flashed  dangerously,  the  brown  in 
them  changing  to  hazel  and  red.  His  fists  clenched 
into  great  balls  of  hate;  he  was  seeing  fire. 

"What  do  I  mean?"  he  asked.  "Why,  what  do 
you  mean  ?  What's  the  answer  to  letting  that  school 
of  whales  escape?  I  never  saw  more  in  these  waters." 

Marr  toyed  with  the  belaying  pin,  lifted  it,  and 
swung  his  arm.  "  I  don't  intend  to  argue  the  case 
with  you ! "  he  declared.  "  I  want  my  orders  obeyed ! 
I  am  in  command  of  this  ship.  I  order  you  to  make 

103 


104  THE  ICE  PILOT 

for  the  ice.  I  command  you  to  take  me  to  Indian 
Point  on  the  Siberian  coast." 

Stirling  reached  and  clutched  the  belaying  pin, 
wrenching  it  from  Marr's  hand  with  a  half  effort. 
Replacing  it  in  the  pinrail,  he  turned  and  stared  at 
the  crew.  The  little  skipper  had  reached  backward 
and  clapped  his  hand  on  a  hip  pocket.  Thinking 
better  of  this  action,  he  hesitated. 

"Men,"  said  Stirling,  "you're  under  the  skipper's 
orders,  as  you  know.  I  want  you  to  take  notice  that 
he  has  forbidden  you  to  lower  for  whales.  You, 
Eagan,  step  up  here!" 

The  seaman  mounted  the  poop  steps.  "Eagan," 
said  Stirling,  laying  his  hand  on  the  sailor's  shoulder, 
"you  are  my  witness  that  I've  done  all  I  could  to 
earn  a  fair  lay  for  the  foremast  hands  and  mates. 
From  now  on,  we  are  embarked  upon  an  unknown 
enterprise  of  doubtful  character.  I  wash  my  hands 
of  the  voyage.  I'll  take  orders  until  they  conflict 
with  the  laws  of  these  waters.  After  that  I'll  request 
Mr.  Marr  to  place  me  ashore." 

Eagan  rubbed  his  unshaven  chin,  blinked,  and 
swung  toward  Marr.  "I'm  with  the  skipper," 
Eagan  said.  "  I  think  he's  right.  I  would  rather  load 
up  with  trade  stuff — and  other  things — than  mess  with 
those  whales.  I  think  the  crew  are  with  me  in  this." 

Stirling  stared  about  him  blankly.  He  felt  as  if 
the  planks  of  the  ship  were  slipping  from  under  his 
feet.  Eagan,  from  all  reports,  was  a  government 
spy.  Now  he  was  siding  with  the  captain  and  the 


A  WHISPERED  WARNING  105 

wilder  members  of  the  crew  who  had  most  certainly 
laid  him  low  at  the  beginning  of  the  voyage. 

"Repeat  that!"  sneered  Marr,  rubbing  his  hands. 
"Just  turn  and  tell  that  to  this  crew.  Tell  them 
what  you  said.  Tell  them  you're  with  me  as  well 
as  they  are.  This  man  Stirling  is  trying  to  cheat 
us  out  of  fair  game.  He'll  be  running  a  Sunday  school, 
next.  I  know  his  breed — afraid  of  the  law!  What 
law  is  north  of  53?" 

"Heaven's  law!"  Stirling  said,  sincerely.  "You 
won't  raid  the  rookeries  if  I  can  prevent  it.  Don't 
you  know  that  there's  only  one  revenue  cutter  in 
these  waters?  Are  you  going  to  take  advantage  of 
that  fact?" 

Whitehouse  came  across  the  quarter-deck,  clutched 
Marr  by  the  arm,  and  drew  the  captain  halfway 
toward  the  wheel  and  the  companion  skylight.  They 
whispered  there  as  Stirling  shouldered  Eagan  to  one 
side,  saying  cuttingly:  "You're  with  them,  too? 
I  thought  you  were  a  man!" 

The  sailor  flushed  and  glanced  down  at  the  deck, 
then  turned  toward  the  crew.  "Fight  it  out  your- 
self," he  said  as  he  climbed  to  the  lower  deck. 

Stirling  waited  for  Marr  to  come  forward,  glancing 
longingly  over  the  slick-covered  seas.  In  mockery, 
it  seemed,  the  whales  were  sporting  about  the  silent 
ship.  One  came  so  close  to  the  bow  that  a  dropped 
block  on  the  forecastle  deck  startled  it.  It  was  gone 
with  a  defiant  toss  of  black  flukes,  and  the  school 
started  toward  the  ice. 


106  THE  ICE  PILOT 

Whitehouse  finished  whispering  to  the  captain, 
glided  to  Stirling,  and  grasped  his  arm.  "The  old 
man  says  to  get  aloft  and  work  into  the  ice.  Says 
we'll  whale  later.  The  school's  gone,  anyway." 

The  peaceful  ending  to  what  Stirling  had  expected 
would  lead  to  a  general  drawing  of  lines  aboard  the 
ship  was  more  than  he  could  stand.  He  turned  and 
fastened  upon  Marr  a  glance  of  deep  determination, 
his  fingers  coiling  into  knots. 

" Remember,"  the  Ice  Pilot  said,  distinctly,  "I'll  al- 
ways be  on  deck.  I  want  no  double  crossing." 

With  this  shot  delivered  through  his  white  teeth, 
Stirling  moved  leisurely  over  the  deck  and  as  he 
descended  to  the  waist,  one  of  the  crew  hissed. 
He  wheeled,  reached  out,  grasped  the  man  by  the 
waist  and  neck,  and  threw  him  over  his  shoulder  like 
a  sack  of  meal. 

"Any  more?"  he  asked,  grimly. 

No  man  of  them  offered  himself  though  Stirling 
waited  with  his  glance  taking  in  the  rough  circle.  He 
dropped  his  fingers,  moved  slowly  to  the  rail  and  up 
the  shrouds  he  climbed  till  he  reached  the  crow's-nest. 
Standing  on  the  edge  of  this,  he  rimmed  the  ice  pack 
from  horizon  to  horizon. 

"One  bell!"  he  called  down.  "All  hands  stand 
by  braces.  Three  of  you  come  aloft  and  loosen  sail." 

The  ship  sprang  with  life.  Whitehouse  jerked 
the  engine-room  telegraph;  the  propeller  thrashed 
astern ;  the  sails  dropped  from  the  yards  and  were 
sheeted  home.  The  taper  jib  boom  swung  toward 


A  WHISPERED  WARNING  107 

the  open  lane  to  the  north  and  east  and  ice  floes 
ground  under  the  stem. 

For  two  watches  Stirling  remained  aloft,  calling 
down  his  orders  in  a  strong  voice.  He  knew  the 
ice  as  few  men  were  ever  gifted  to  know  it,  and  took 
advantage  of  all  his  experience.  He  held  the  course 
through  the  lane  until,  balked,  he  drove  across  a 
sea  of  slush  and  thin  ice  and  crashed  the  way  open 
to  still  another  pathway  to  the  north. 

The  Pribilofs,  already  green  with  moss  and  spring 
verdure,  were  sighted  at  sundown.  A  low  shed 
marked  the  sealing  station  where  the  bachelor  seals 
had  been  skinned  in  days  gone  by,  and  a  flag  flew  from 
a  pole  at  the  side  of  the  Commissioner's  house.  Its 
bars  of  white  and  red  cheered  Stirling.  It  was  the 
emblem  of  his  country  in  the  Northern  seas. 

No  other  ships  showed  within  the  ice  field;  Stirling 
had  taken  chances  lesser  pilots  feared.  He  drove 
north  and  east  under  steam  and  canvas,  saving  the 
ship  from  being  crushed  a  score  of  times.  He  an- 
nounced quietly  upon  the  fourth  day  that  East  Cape 
lay  ahead,  and  pointed  over  the  bow.  Marr,  on  the 
quarter-deck,  clapped  Whitehouse  across  the  shoul- 
ders, and  the  mate  grinned  and  danced  over  the 
planks. 

The  massive  solemnity  of  the  great  headland,  as 
it  rose  above  the  ice  field,  held  every  eye  aboard  the 
whaler.  It  was  the  farthermost  point  east  and  north 
of  the  Siberian  continent.  Near  the  foot  of  the 
Cape  nestled  a  native  village. 


io8  THE  ICE  PILOT 

"Indian  Point?"  asked  Marr,  glaring  upward  at 
Stirling. 

The  Ice  Pilot  nodded  as  he  guided  the  ship  through 
the  last  of  the  shore  ice  and  ordered  the  anchor 
dropped  in  a  sheltered  nook.  The  rattle  of  the  chain 
in  the  hawser  hole  awoke  echoes  within  the  cliff; 
Indian  canoes  in  the  shape  of  hair-sealskin  umiaks 
and  kayaks  darted  out  to  meet  them,  and  other 
boats  flecked  the  Straits  of  Bering,  coming  down  with 
the  wind  and  current  from  East  Cape. 

The  Pole  Star  was  the  first  ship  of  the  season,  and 
the  natives  welcomed  it  with  a  great  noise.  Chiefs 
were  hastily  paddled  out,  and  mounted  the  quarter- 
^eck  to  gather  about  Marr  and  Whitehouse.  Stir- 
ling attended  to  the  throng  which  swarmed  up  the 
anchor  chain  and  forepeak.  Native  girls,  old  women, 
men  and  children  brought  trade  stuff  of  varied  char- 
acter— salmon,  walrus  tusks,  small  whalebone,  carved 
idols,  feather  coats,  skin  caps,  and  hoods. 

A  large  umiak  appeared  from  the  ice  of  the  strait, 
and  in  its  bow  stood  a  chief,  who  called  Stirling's 
name.  The  Ice  Pilot  reach  over  the  rail  and  grasped 
the  hand  of  the  leader  of  the  Diomede  Islanders. 
They  had  brought  the  best  of  Mazeka  boots,  which 
are  prized  by  whalers  and  the  hunters  of  the  North. 
These  boots  were  sealskin  moccasins,  capped  to  full 
length  with  deerskin,  watertight  and  warm. 

"Plenty  bone  ashore,"  said  the  native  chief,  point- 
ing at  the  igloos  of  Indian  Point.  "Plenty  whales 
this  season.  Me  catchum  two." 


A  WHISPERED  WARNING 

Stirling  smiled  at  the  broad  face  of  the  Eskimo, 
then  shook  his  head.  "Plenty  ships  come  soon," 
he  said.  "  You  sell  to  old  Peterson.  You  remember, 
he  pay  big  trade  stuff.  Don't  take  whisky." 

The  chief  blinked  shrewdly,  dug  deep  within  his 
fur  parka,  and  brought  forth  a  pipe,  which  he  filled 
with  a  pinch  of  cut  plug.  Stirling  offered  a  match, 
and  the  chief  puffed  and  stared  about  the  ship. 

"New!"  he  said  with  brevity.  "Fine  ship.  You 
own?" 

Stirling  shook  his  head  and  pointed  toward  the 
quarter-deck,  where  Marr  was  in  conference  with 
the  Indian  Point  chiefs. 

"He  buy  whalebone?"  asked  the  Diomede 
Islander. 

"  I  don't  think  so.  You  try  old  Peterson.  Maybe 
he  give  you  plenty." 

"I  want  two  whaleboats  this  year,"  said  the 
shrewd  native.  "I  want  ten  guns  and  whale  lines. 
Next  year  I  catch  plenty  whales." 

Stirling  recalled  the  method  employed  by  the  na- 
tives in  capturing  bowheads.  They  usually  fastened 
from  kayaks  or  umiaks  and  drove  in  as  many  irons  as 
they  could.  To  each  iron  was  fastened  a  skin  line 
which  terminated  in  a  seal  poke  inflated  with  air. 
These,  if  in  sufficient  numbers,  prevented  the  whale 
from  sounding  and  allowed  it  to  be  finished  with  long, 
ivory-pointed  lances. 

Drunken  natives  staggered  from  the  poop  and 
swarmed  about  the  waist  and  forepeak  of  the  ship. 


no  THE  ICE  PILOT 

Marr  had  distributed  whisky  for  what  trade  stuff 
he  needed.  He  bought  three  heads  of  bone  for 
twelve  kegs  of  alcohol  and  water  mixed.  This  bone 
came  out  in  umiaks  and  was  stored  with  the  other 
baleen  in  the  forehold. 

Time  passed  at  the  Point.  Marr  seemed  in  no 
great  hurry  to  enter  the  Arctic,  even  going  ashore 
and  remaining  overnight  with  the  native  chiefs. 
Sounds  of  their  mirth  and  drunken  carousing  floated 
out. 

Stirling  chafed  at  the  delay.  The  skipper  was 
evidently  waiting  for  some  message  from  across  the 
sea.  Each  ship  which  passed  or  dropped  anchor  at 
East  Cape  was  gammed;  each  time  the  captain  re- 
turned without  word  of  his  purpose.  Five  whalers 
went  through  to  the  summer  whaling  ground  which 
extended  all  of  the  way  to  the  mouth  of  the  Macken- 
zie River  and  beyond. 

A  night  came  when  the  sun  barely  dipped  below 
the  western  waters.  Stirling  had  tried  to  sleep, 
but  finally  emerged  to  the  deck  with  hot,  fevered 
eyes.  The  air  was  heavy  and  sultry,  and  mosquitoes 
buzzed.  They  had  been  blown  from  off  the  Siberian 
tundra. 

The  pack  long  since  had  gone  through  the  Straits 
and  down  the  long  reach  of  the  Bering  Sea.  A  group 
of  natives  slept  on  the  forepeak  of  the  Pole  Star, 
while  a  single  member  of  the  crew  walked  slowly 
from  port  to  starboard  and  back  again,  holding 
the  anchor  watch. 


A  WHISPERED  WARNING  in 

Some  slight  noise  upon  the  quarter-deck  caused 
Stirling  to  turn  aft  till  he  stood  in  the  gloom  of  the 
galley  cabin.  He  glanced  keenly  upward,  to  where 
the  drab  canvas  of  the  rail  showed,  with  a  shadow 
behind  it.  A  faint  light  shone  from  the  open  com- 
panion. 

Then,  and  suddenly,  he  heard  his  name  called. 
He  started  for  the  lee  poop  steps,  then  paused  as  a 
warning  was  whispered  to  him.  He  stared  upward 
in  rising  perplexity.  A  white  hand  reached  over  the 
rail,  its  fingers  uncoiled,  and  a  dark  object  fell  to  the 
deck.  There  followed  the  sound  of  soft  feet  over  the 
quarter-deck's  planks  and  of  the  shutting  of  the  cabin 
companion. 

Stirling  stooped  and  picked  up  the  object.  Un- 
rolling it  slowly,  he  blushed  through  his  sea  tan  as 
he  held  out  a  tiny  glove.  It  was  such  a  glove  as  only 
a  dainty  woman  could  wear. 

"By  the  jumping  bowheads!"  he  exclaimed.  "A 
pretty  girl's  aboard  and  she's  noticed  me.  I  wonder 
who  she  is?" 


CHAPTER  XV 

OUT  OF  THE  PORTHOLE 

PRESSING  the  glove  within  the  pocket  of  his 
pea-jacket,  Stirling  strode  to  the  waist  of  the 
Pole  Star.  From  this  position  he  glanced  up- 
ward at  the  quarter-deck,  which  was  deserted. 

The  soft  aroma  of  the  perfume  struck  to  his  nos- 
trils and  he  searched  his  brain  for  the  events  which 
led  up  to  the  dainty  offering  tossed  down  to  him. 

Marr  and  Whitehouse  knew  the  secret  of  the  after 
cabin  of  the  whaler.  They  never  had  given  any 
sign  that  another  shared  the  meals  and  splendid 
staterooms  with  them.  This  other  had  been  brought 
upon  the  voyage  against  her  will — Stirling  remem- 
bered the  sob,  and  the  lone  figure  upon  the  poop 
when  they  had  tied  to  the  North  pack.  He  pieced 
together  the  few  observations  he  had  made,  and  they 
all  led  to  one  conclusion:  a  dainty  woman,  who 
closely  resembled  the  skipper  in  height  and  weight, 
was  aboard  the  Pole  Star.  She  had  made  the  first 
advance  to  him.  Others  might  follow. 

He  rounded  the  shadow  of  the  galley  house  and 
stared  at  the  frowning  headland  of  Indian  Point, 
then  turned  and  glanced  out  over  the  waters  of  the 
Bering  Strait.  The  ice  had  gone  south  from  around 

112 


OUT  OF  THE  PORTHOLE  113 

the  base  of  the  headlands.  The  road  to  the  Arctic 
was  open. 

He  heard  then,  above  the  snoring  of  the  natives 
who  were  sleeping  upon  the  foreward  deck,  the  low 
boom  of  a  distant  cannon.  It  was  repeated.  A 
ship  of  some  kind  was  signalling  to  leeward. 

Searching  the  sea,  Stirling  strained  his  eyes  with- 
out discovering  sign  of  smoke  or  sail.  The  night  was 
starlit  and  strangely  warm.  The  glimmering  waters 
of  the  Bering  to  the  southward  hung  like  a  burnished 
mirror.  An  early  sun  was  starting  to  swing  its  up- 
ward arc,  and  a  pink  flush  made  visible  the  far-off 
land  of  Alaska. 

Again  the  sound  of  cannon  came  to  Stirling.  It 
stirred  the  natives  and  brought  the  lone  anchor  watch 
around  in  his  position.  He  stared  at  Stirling. 

"A  ship  to  leeward,"  said  the  Ice  Pilot.  "Keep 
your  eyes  peeled.  She's  a  long  ways  off." 

The  seaman  went  to  the  rail  and  leaned  over  it. 
He  was  in  that  position  when  Stirling  opened  the  door 
of  his  cabin  and  stepped  inside.  He  switched  on  the 
light,  removed  the  glove  from  his  pocket,  and  touched 
it  to  his  wide  nostrils.  He  sensed  the  perfume  with 
throbbing  heart.  Feeling  the  rush  of  blood  to  his  face, 
he  turned  with  a  guilty  start  and  placed  the  glove 
within  an  inlaid  sextant  box.  The  closing  of  the 
lid  sealed  his  purpose  to  stand  by  the  woman  who 
was  aft. 

Morning  dawned  at  an  Arctic  hour,  and  the  white 
light  crept  through  the  open  porthole  of  Stirling's 


ii4  THE  ICE  PILOT 

cabin.  Hfc  rose  and  dressed,  emerging  to  the  deck 
with  a  wide  yawn.  The  striking  bell  told  him  that 
he  had  not  slept  more  than  two  hours. 

A  seaman  brushed  by  him  and  hurried  forward 
to  where  the  natives  were  standing  on  the  higher 
coign  of  vantage  which  marked  the  forepeak.  All 
eyes  were  turned  out  over  the  swiftly  running  Strait, 
where  a  two-funnel  light  cruiser  cutter  plowed  with 
a  bone  at  her  stem.  She  carried  no  flag,  and  the 
signals  set  to  her  bridge  halyards  were  in  an  unknown 
code. 

Whitehouse  glided  to  Stirling's  side.  The  mate 
was  tensely  agitated;  he  sputtered  and  stuttered. 
"  Ely  me,"  he  said,  "what's  she  doing  'ere?" 

"Light  cruiser,"  said  Stirling,  thoughtfully.  "An 
American — or  British.  She's  just  this  side  the 
Diomedes.  She  did  not  see  us." 

Whitehouse  twisted  his  loose  lips  into  a  purse,  and 
stroked  his  long,  red  nose. 

Stirling  widened  his  eyes.  A  dark  plume  of  smoke 
was  all  that  remained  to  mark  the  ship.  This  plume 
stretched  along  the  eastern  horizon,  then  faded  and 
paled  in  the  sun's  first  rays. 

Marr  called  from  aft.  Whitehouse  turned  with  a 
guilty  start,  hurried  along  the  weather  side  of  the 
ship,  and  mounted  to  the  poop. 

He  returned  within  a  few  minutes  and  touched 
Stirling  on  the  arm.  "Skipper  wants  to  see  you," 
he  said.  "It's  blym  important." 

Stirling  glanced  about  as  he  went  aft.     The  ship 


OUT  OF  THE  PORTHOLE  115 

lay  deep  within  the  shadow  of  the  Point.  Her  deck 
forward  was  covered  with  natives  and  trade  stuff. 
The  crew  had  brought  out  all  of  their  red  underwear 
and  slop-chest  stuff  in  a  search  for  bargains,  and 
their  voices  were  mingled  with  the  clatter  of  native 
maids  and  hunters. 

"What  did  you  make  of  that  cutter?"  asked  Marr 
as  Stirling  reached  the  poop. 

"American  or  British.  Going  into  the  Arctic  on 
some  mission.  I  don't  believe  she  saw  us." 

"How  was  that?"    Marr  was  plainly  nervous. 

"We  were  well  under  the  headland  with  no  lights 
or  canvas  showing.  We  were  in  such  a  position  that 
she  could  be  seen  without  her  seeing  us.  At  least, 
that  is  my  opinion,  Mr.  Marr." 

The  little  captain  toyed  with  the  buttons  of  his 
pea-jacket.  "That  sounds  reasonable,"  he  said. 
"Why  is  she  up  here?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  cruisers  up  here  before?" 

"Only  once.     That  was  the  old  Bainbridge" 

"What  brought  her  to  these  waters?" 

"Seal  poachers!" 

Stirling  weighed  his  words  and  shot  them  directly 
at  Marr,  then  watched  their  effect  like  a  gunner 
watches  a  shot  go  home.  Marr  dropped  his  hand 
from  his  buttons  and  paled  slightly. 

"  Did  she  get  them?"  he  asked. 

"She  certainly  did!  She  also  removed  Captains 
Jones  and  Priestly  from  the  S pouter  and  the  brig 


n6  THE  ICE  PILOT 

Belvidere.  Both  captains  were  trading  whisky  for 
bone;  there  is  a  law  up  here  that  men  should  not 
do  that!" 

Again  Stirling  watched  the  effect  of  his  words. 
Marr  had  many  barrels  of  cheap  trade  whisky  aboard 
the  Pole  Star,  and  already  had  sent  some  ashore. 

"That  will  be  all/'  said  the  skipper  with  a  quick 
frown.  "  You  are  too  confounded  personal !  Haven't 
I  a  right  to  ask  you  a  few  questions?  Who's  cap- 
tain of  this  ship? 

"Captains  are  not  immune  from  certain  laws.  One 
law  applies  to  all  men.  You  cannot  trade  rotten 
whisky  with  natives.  You  cannot  rob  them  of  their 
bone  for  a  barrel  of  water  and  alcohol.  You  cannot 
raid  rookeries  and  get  away  with  it.  That  cruiser  is 
the  answer.  You  have  escaped  so  far.  You  may 
not  be  so  lucky  next  time." 

Marr  wheeled  with  a  vicious  oath.  "Get  for- 
ward!" he  said.  "Get  where  you  belong.  You 
ought  to  join  some  of  these  canting  missionary 
schools.  There's  one  or  two  I'd  like  to  drop  you  at." 

Stirling  paused  on  the  first  poop  step  and  closed 
his  fists,  but  opened  them  again  and  went  on  down  to 
the  deck,  moving  slowly  forward  to  where  the  crew 
and  natives  were  trading.  He  singled  out  the  Dio- 
mede  Islander  who  had  disposed  of  most  of  his  seal- 
skin boots. 

"When  do  you  go  back?"  he  asked,  guardedly. 

The  native  tapped  the  rail  with  his  pipe  and  filled 
its  bowl  with  a  pinch  of  cut  plug.  He  then  broke 


OUT  OF  THE  PORTHOLE  117 

off  a  match  from  a  block  and  scraped  it  carefully 
upon  the  deck,  straightened,  and  drew  in  five  deep 
breaths  before  the  tobacco  was  consumed,  and  he 
answered. 

"Pretty  soon,  now,"  he  said,  replacing  the  pipe  in 
his  deerskin  coat,  and  glancing  through  puffed  eyes 
at  the  sea  in  the  direction  of  the  Lesser  Diomede. 
"  Me  take  umiak  and  trade  stuff  and  wife  and  little 
ones  and  me  go." 

"  Do  you  remember  old  Hank  Peterson?" 

"Me  savvy  him.     All  the  same  whaling  captain." 

"Big  captain!"  said  Stirling,  with  a  smile.  "You 
see  him  this  season?" 

"Yes!     Me  see  him.     He  always  stops  for  boots." 

"You  give  him  something  for  me?" 

"Yes;  I  give." 

Stirling  hurried  into  his  cabin  and  tore  a  leaf  from 
an  ancient  log  book.  Upon  this  he  wrote  a  message 
to  Peterson  which  he  felt  was  certain  to  be  delivered 
by  the  faithful  Diomede  chief. 

The  message  concerned  the  Seal  Islands  and  the 
danger  of  a  raid  being  made  against  them. 

Notify  any  revenue  cutters  or  cruisers, 

Stirling  commanded. 

The  native  chief  took  the  scrap  of  paper,  glanced 
about  in  caution,  and  crammed  it  into  a  bead-woven 
poke  wherein  were  his  most  valuable  possessions. 
"Me  give  'em!"  he  declared,  positively.  "White 


n8  THE  ICE  PILOT 

captain,  he  get  maybe  day  or  two.  Plenty  whale 
ships  come  now." 

Stirling  was  satisfied  with  his  messenger.  The 
chief  departed  from  the  Pole  Star's  side  after  bundling 
aboard  his  umiak  all  of  his  trade  stuff  and  relatives. 
These  last  were  seventeen  in  number,  and  the  skin 
boat  was  deep  enough  in  the  sea  to  suggest  that  a 
catastrophe  would  happen  before  the  Lesser  Diomede 
was  reached. 

The  last  sight  of  the  chief,  however,  was  a  reas- 
suring one  to  Stirling.  The  faithful  native  had  skil- 
fully risen  in  the  bow  of  the  umiak,  steadied  his  short 
legs,  and  taken  out  his  beaded  poke.  This  he  waved 
overhead,  being  careful  not  to  capsize  the  laden  boat. 

Stirling  had  answered  by  lifting  his  cap  and  holding 
it  aloft,  then  the  boat  was  paddled  around  a  rocky 
point.  Other  umiaks  and  kayaks  followed.  Many  of 
the  natives  went  ashore,  taking  the  stuff  they  had 
bought;  the  few  that  remained  were  aft  with  Marr. 
One  was  singing  a  drunken  song  which  never  before 
had  been  heard  on  land  or  sea. 

Eagan  stepped  to  Stirling's  side  as  the  last  notes 
of  this  song  floated  down  the  deck. 

"Booze!"  said  the  seaman,  laconically. 

"Alcohol!"  exclaimed  Stirling.  "These  natives 
were  all  right  until  the  white  men  came.  They 
hunted  and  fished  and  lived  simple  lives." 

Eagan  smiled.  "What  are  you  going  to  do  about 
this  Siberian  bunch?"  he  asked.  "The  U.  S.  A. 
has  no  jurisdiction  over  here." 


OUT  OF  THE  PORTHOLE  119 

"It  has!  Russia  is  not  to  blame.  It  isn't  Russian 
whalers  and  traders  who  do  the  mischief." 

"Forget  the  preaching,"  said  Eagan  with  Frisco 
slang.  "  Keep  your  opinions  to  yourself,  Stirling.  The 
day  for  booze  in  the  United  States  seems  to  be  about 
over,  anyway.  Just  now— 

The  seaman's  voice  trailed  off  into  silence.  He 
thrust  out  a  strong  jaw,  drilled  Stirling  with  a  mean- 
ing glance,  then  was  gone  with  a  swift  turn  across 
the  deck. 

Stirling  was  still  thinking  of  the  whisky;  like  all 
strong  natures,  he  dwelt  too  long  on  one  subject. 

He  moved  to  the  rail  and  leaned  his  elbows  upon 
the  chains  where  they  were  spliced  to  the  shrouds  and 
standing  rigging.  He  swept  the  native  village  with 
a  painstaking  glance;  it  was  not  the  same  as  first 
he  had  known  it.  The  igloos  back  in  the  valley, 
which  was  still  crusted  with  winter  snow,  were  few 
and  small  in  dimensions.  The  frame  shacks  and 
rude  tents  of  the  summer  village  bore  the  certain 
stamp  of  neglect  and  carelessness.  Dogs  hunted 
about  for  scraps  of  meat.  Children  in  trade  calico 
played  with  a  listless  air.  The  umiaks  and  kayaks 
were  patched  and  broken. 

Stirling  frowned.  Other  villages  along  the  Siber- 
ian and  Alaskan  shores  were  similarly  stamped. 
They  had  been  touched  and  polluted  by  the  influence 
of  those  whalers  who  found  it  easier  to  allow  the 
natives  to  secure  the  whalebone  than  it  was  to  go 
out  to  sea  and  get  it. 


120  THE   ICE  PILOT 

A  sharp  command  broke  through  Stirling's 
thoughts,  and  he  turned  from  his  view  of  the  village. 
Marr  stood  at  the  weather  poop  steps. 

The  little  skipper  pointed  toward  the  waist  of  the 
whaleboat.  "Lower  that!"  he  snapped.  "You 
and  Eagan  and  about  two  seamen  drop  up  to  East 
Cape.  See  if  there's  any  bone  there." 

Stirling  answered  the  skipper's  command  with  a 
slow  glance,  moved  not  too  hastily  toward  the 
whaleboat,  and  climbed  inside.  From  this  position, 
he  called  Eagan  and  two  seamen  who  were  idling  on 
the  forepeak. 

The  boat  was  cleared  of  lashings  and  lowered,  with 
Stirling  in  the  bow  and  Eagan  in  the  stern,  then 
the  seamen  came  down  the  dangling  falls  and  dropped 
aboard.  They  thrust  out  two  long  oars  and  shoved 
the  whaleboat  from  the  ship. 

Stirling  glanced  at  the  telltale  on  the  Pole  Star, 
then  motioned  to  up  the  single  sail  and  lower  the 
centerboard.  The  light  craft  sailed  into  the  wind 
and  canted  far  to  leeward,  gliding  from  the  shadow 
of  the  headland  as  the  sun  swung  over  the  shoulder 
of  Siberia. 

East  Cape  was  reached  soon  after  dark.  Stirling 
sprang  ashore  and  shouted;  then  repeated  the  call. 
Lights  shone  from  the  windows  set  in  the  summer 
shacks. 

A  pack  of  shaggy  dogs,  followed  by  three  natives, 
came  out  and  stared  at  the  whaleboat.  One  dog 
crept  down  the  beach  and  sniffed  Stirling's  native 


OUT  OF  THE  PORTHOLE  121 

boots,  then  raised  his  snout  and  called  a  wolf's  long 
howl  of  welcome. 

A  rude  door  was  opened  in  the  larger  shack,  and 
the  chief  stood  revealed  in  the  glow  of  the  inner  fire, 
about  which  native  women  were  squatted.  Stirling 
advanced  and  held  out  his  hand,  touching  the  chief 
on  the  shoulder.  "You  remember  me,"  he  said. 
"  Me  ice  pilot  of  the  Beluga.  You  got  any  whalebone 
to  trade?" 

The  chief's  face  cleared,  and  he  voiced  a  noisy 
welcome.  He  had  no  whalebone;  furs  he  showed  and 
also  tusks.  Some  of  these  were  carved  with  run- 
ning men  and  spouting  whales. 

It  was  after  dawn  when  Stirling  gave  the  order 
to  run  out  the  whaleboat  and  make  for  the  Pole  Star. 
The  chief,  his  family,  and  a  score  of  natives  waved 
a  silent  farewell,  standing  on  the  beach  until  the 
boat  turned  a  ledge  of  rock  and  vanished  into  the 
smooth  waters  of  the  Strait. 

Stirling  was  steering  as  the  light  boat  swung  under 
the  Pole  Star's  stern  and  glided  alongside.  He 
glanced  up  at  the  overhanging  poop  where  lights 
showed  through  the  portholes.  Out  of  one  an  arm 
reached  and  waved,  and  he  heard  a  low-voiced  warn- 
ing. It  was  muffled  and  indistinct,  but  it  was  a  girl's 
tones  which  warned.  He  had  but  time  to  swing  the 
tiller  when  the  boat  scraped  against  the  whaler's 
sheathing  and  Eagan  caught  a  dangling  fall. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

FROM    HIS    POCKET 

THE  Ice  Pilot  reached  the  deck  by  way  of  the 
chains  in  the  waist,  and  saw  that  the  entire 
crew  had  gathered  between  the  galley  house 
and  the  break  of  the  poop. 

Marr  was  with  them.  He  wheeled,  strutted  over 
the  planks,  and  planted  himself  before  Stirling. 
"What  did  you  find  at  East  Cape?"  he  asked. 

Stirling  doubled  his  fists  and  stepped  back.  "  Little 
or  nothing,"  he  said,  glancing  over  the  skipper's 
slight  shoulder  and  meeting  the  eyes  of  the  crew 
which  seemed  suddenly  hostile.  "  Little  or  nothing," 
he  repeated,  simply.  "  There's  pelts  there  and  ivory, 
but  no  bone.  I  told  them  we  had  no  whisky  to 
trade." 

"You  did?" 

Stirling  flushed  and  backed  to  the  rail.  He 
heard  Eagan  drop  to  the  deck  beside  him,  and  the 
seaman  was  followed  by  the  two  sailors  who  had  made 
the  trip  to  East  Cape. 

"I  did!" 

"  Don't  you  know  that  this  crew  is  trying  to  make 
an  honest  living?  Don't  you  know  that  every  brave 
man  aboard  gets  a  two  hundredth  lay  of  the  bone 

122 


FROM  HIS  POCKET  123 

we  trade  or  capture?  Why  didn't  you  try  the  natives 
with  a  little  whisky  bait?  You'd  have  found  bone 
hidden  in  every  igloo." 

"Go  yourself!"  said  Stirling.  "I  won't  do  your 
dirty  work!" 

Marr  turned  to  the  half-moon  of  menacing  men. 
"You  heard  that,"  he  said.  "That's  the  kind  of 
man  this  pilot  is — all  for  himself.  1  told  you  we'd 
have  to  look  out  for  him.  We  can't  go  on  any  further 
until  he  is  taken  care  of." 

The  crew  had  reached  some  sort  of  agreement 
before  Stirling  arrived  from  East  Cape;  this  much  he 
saw  with  widening  eyes,  glancing  from  face  to  face. 
The  Kanakas  had  been  chosen  for  their  loyalty  to 
the  little  skipper.  The  boat  steerers  were  Frisco 
dock  rats  who  had  the  run  of  the  steerage — an  ele- 
vated position  to  them.  The  rest  of  the  crew  had 
scant  hopes  for  anything  save  plunder  and  spoils  in 
this  life.  They  would  have  willingly  followed  Marr 
through  the  entire  group  of  rookeries,  starting  at 
Disko  Island  and  winding  up  at  the  Pribilofs. 

Stirling  reached  and  rested  his  hand  on  the  pin- 
rail,  where  were  a  dozen  brass  belaying  pins.  He 
lifted  his  hand,  wound  his  fingers  about  the  nearest, 
and  raised  it  an  inch  or  more.  A  tenseness  of  des- 
perate right  steeled  his  muscles;  his  jaw  muscles 
hardened  to  balls,  and  his  lips  closed  in  a  grim  line. 

Marr  reached  backward  and  clapped  his  palm 
over  his  right  hip.  The  motion  was  a  signal.  The 
crew  snarled  in  a  running  line  of  anger,  advanced  in 


i24  THE  ICE  PILOT 

a  half-circle,  and  closed  about  Stirling  One  held  a 
sheath  knife  openly  displayed  in  his  hand. 

"Kill  the  squealer!"  he  exclaimed.  "Kill  him! 
He's  preventing  us  from  getting  what's  coming  on 
this  voyage,  Darn,  says  I,  if  I'll  go  to  Frisco  broke. 
What  d'ye  say,  mates?" 

"Hold  on!"  cried  Stirling,  raising  his  ponderous 
right  fist.  "The  first  man  who  tries  anything  gets 
this!" 

Eagan  stepped  out  from  the  rail  a  half  step,  and 
stood  partly  between  Stirling  and  the  little  skipper. 
There  was  that  written  in  the  seaman's  face  which 
held  every  man  upon  the  ship.  His  eyes  glittered 
with  high  light,  and  his  body  rested  on  the  balls  of 
his  feet  as  if  to  spring. 

"A  moment!"  Eagan  snapped  in  steeled  tones. 
"This  layout  will  lead  to  murder.  Murder  leads  to 
swingin'.  I  don't  want  to  swing.  I'm  with  the 
skipper  in  every  way.  Get  that?" 

The  crew  glanced  at  each  face  before  them — 
Stirling's  strong,  but  uncertain;  Eagan's  masterful; 
Marr's  openly  sneering. 

"We  get  it,"  a  sailor  answered  back. 

"Then,  I  suggest  we  all  go  slow.  This  Stirling 
has  been  cracking  too  much  about  whisky  and  seals. 
He's  liable  to  see  too  much  and  say  too  many  things 
afterward.  You  get  me,  don't  you?" 

"We  get  you." 

"On  the  other  hand,"  continued  Eagan,  "there's 
the  danger  of  messing  the  whole  voyage  up.  If  we 


FROM  HIS  POCKET  125 

croak  this  fellow,  it'll  get  out  and  we'll  have  to  pay. 
If  we  maroon  him  anywhere  along  this  coast,  he'll 
find  a  way  to  signal  that  cruiser  that  went  north,  or 
the  Bear." 

"How  about  an  island?"  a  boat  steerer  asked. 

"That's  it!"  declared  Eagan,  dropping  his  hand. 
"We'll  put  him  on  an  island  after  we  get  done  with 
the  little  trip  the  captain  has  planned  for  us.  That 
island  will  be  in  the  North  Pacific.  We  can  pick  out 
a  nice,  quiet  one." 

Stirling,  with  fist  still  ready  for  action,  turned 
toward  Eagan  and  exclaimed:  "You're  with  them, 
eh?" 

"Certainly;  all  the  way!  You're  one  against 
thirty — more  than  that,  counting  the  engine-room 
force  and  the  stokehold  bunch.  Put  down  that 
fist  and  get  into  your  cabin;  stay  there  and  don't 
come  on  deck.  Otherwise  they're  going  to  mop  up 
the  ship  with  you." 

"I'll  chance  that "  started  Stirling,  advancing 

upon  the  crew,  both  fists  now  clenched. 

He  never  hesitated  in  the  charge.  It  was  bull 
strong  and  intended  to  clear  the  way  to  the  poop; 
men  went  over  as  ninepins;  blows  glanced  from  his 
shoulders.  He  reached  the  poop  steps  with  arms 
twined  about  him,  threw  these  off  with  a  savage 
twist  and  squirm,  and  went  up  as  a  Kanaka  harpooner 
seized  his  legs.  Dragging  slowly,  he  grasped  the 
rail  and  bent  his  body. 

It  was  then  that  a  belaying  pin  flew  across  the 


126  THE  ICE  PILOT 

waist  of  the  ship,  glanced  from  the  quarter-deck  rail, 
and  struck  Stirling  in  the  temple.  He  rolled  down 
the  steps — the  centre  of  a  snarling  pack  of  men — 
then  lay  quiet,  with  blood  flowing  from  the  wound 
in  his  head. 

Eagan  pulled  off  the  pack  and  lifted  him  like  a 
heavy  sack  of  meal.  "I'll  put  him  in  his  cabin," 
he  said  with  a  grunt.  "  I'll  watch  him.  Leave  that 
part  to  me." 

Marr  turned  and  faced  the  crew.  "Get  the  anchor 
up!"  he  ordered.  "We'll  drop  down  the  wind  and 
make  for  our  landfall.  Remember,  we're  looking  for 
bowheads  until  I  give  other  instructions." 

Eagan  laid  Stirling  on  his  bunk  and  went  to  work. 
He  found  water  and  a  clean  towel,  bathed  the  swollen 
wound,  leaned  over,  and  shook  Stirling  into  con- 
sciousness. 

"Lay  low!"  he  whispered.  "Don't  you  know 
who  I  am?" 

Stirling  rolled,  and  pressed  his  hand  to  his  eyes. 
"I  don't  know,"  he  said,  weakly.  "Who  are  you?" 

Eagan  reached  into  his  pocket  and  drew  forth 
a  gold  badge.  He  held  it  before  Stirling's  swimming 
eyes. 

"  I  am  a  Deputy  Seal  Commissioner,"  said  the  sea- 
man. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

INTO    FORBIDDEN    WATERS 

THE  long  Northern  day  died  at  last  as  the 
Pole  Star  drove  south  and  west  through  the 
ice-flecked  waters  of  the  Bering  Sea. 

Night  shaded  overhead  and  the  wind  sank  to  a 
following  breeze  which  flapped  the  sails  on  the 
polished  spars.  Steam  was  got  up  in  the  boilers, 
the  screw  thrashed,  and  the  ship  plunged  on — her 
sharp  stem  cutting  through  the  drift  ice  like  a  knife 
going  through  thin  paper. 

Into  the  upward  swing  of  the  Arctic  sun  the  whaler 
steered.  Fog  drifted  upon  them,  and  when  it  lifted 
there  was  exposed  a  wide  waste  of  sullen  waters  upon 
the  surface  of  which  seal  and  walrus  sported.  Once 
a  killer  whale  attracted  attention.  Some  of  the  green 
crew  called  "A  blow!" 

Marr  knew  better  than  this.  He  urged  the  ship 
on  as  if  it  were  carrying  the  mail  for  Southern 
waters.  He  stood  the  watch  with  Whitehouse,  and 
both  seamen  had  received  Eagan's  report  that  Stir- 
ling was  resting  easily  and  was  making  no  trouble. 

They  consulted  as  to  the  best  course  to  pursue  in 
regard  to  Stirling.  Marr  was  for  locking  him  se- 
curely in  the  chain-locker — this  was  a  tiny  space  for- 

127 


128  THE  ICE  PILOT 

ward  the  forecastle.  Whitehouse,  who  had  taken  a 
liking  to  Stirling,  admiring  his  prowess  with  the  ice 
and  the  conditions  met  in  the  Bering,  suggested  that 
Eagan  should  be  left  in  charge  of  the  captive  and 
held  responsible.  Marr  agreed,  neither  man  sus- 
pecting that  the  sailor  had  any  motive  in  staying 
near  Stirling.  Their  first  suspicion  had  been  for- 
gotten. Eagan  had  played  a  difficult  part  and  won 
his  point. 

It  was  on  the  third  day  that  the  Pole  Star  entered, 
as  dusk  crept  across  the  sky,  the  zone  of  danger 
where  no  ships  were  allowed  at  that  season  of  the 
year,  the  strictest  patrolled  patch  of  water  in  the 
world.  Seals  of  the  fur-skin  variety,  which  are  so 
valuable  and  scarce,  sported  about. 

Marr  drove  on  with  all  lights  shaded  and  a  canvas 
cone  capping  the  Pole  Star's  funnel  and  steam  pipe. 
Orders  had  been  given  for  each  man  to  stand  at 
position.  Guns  had  been  laid  in  the  whaleboats, 
and  great  oak  capstan  bars  took  the  place  of  the 
whaling  gear. 

An  air  of  expectancy  filled  each  sailor's  breast; 
the  die  was  cast,  and  they  were  close  to  the  great 
game.  Whaling  was  for  old  men  and  weaklings. 
Stories  had  been  told  in  the  forecastle  and  steerage 
concerning  the  sudden  profits  of  a  seal  raid.  Mac- 
Lane  was  cited  as  an  instance  of  desperate  daring 
and  tremendous  enterprise,  MacLane  who  had  raided 
both  the  Copper  Group  and  the  Pribilofs  in  one  sea- 
son. He  had  brought  his  schooner  into  Seattle 


INTO  FORBIDDEN  WATERS          129 

with  her  deck  planks  bulging  from  the  salted  skins 
beneath. 

Eagan  moved  from  Stirling's  cabin  to  the  fore- 
castle and  back  again.  He  had  secured  a  pair  of  rusty 
handcuffs  with  which  he  made  great  show  of  securing 
the  Ice  Pilot,  where  he  lay  on  his  back.  Now  and 
then  one  of  the  galley  crowd  peered  in  through  the 
open  porthole  and  reported  to  the  sailors  on  deck.  ••  , 

A  double  lookout  was  maintained  from  forepeak 
and  quarter-deck,  and  the  horizon  was  closely  scan- 
ned by  Marr  and  Whitehouse.  The  rookeries  lay 
close  to  the  south  and  west  and  the  ship  had  been 
driven  toward  the  northeast  point  of  St.  Paul's 
Island. 

Stirling  sensed  his  position  by  the  slowing  of  the 
screw  and  the  direction  of  the  slight  wind  and  he 
reviewed  the  entire  series  of  events  since  coming 
aboard  the  ship.  His  head  had  now  cleared,  and 
the  slight  swelling  at  the  temple  was  going  down 
under  Eagan's  skillful  treatment. 

The  situation  was  desperate  enough.  Marr  had 
taken  the  long  chance  and  reached  the  waters  about 
the  rookeries.  But  two  armed  ships  were  known  to 
be  in  the  Bering  Sea  or  the  Arctic.  One  was  the 
revenue  cutter  Bear;  the  other,  the  unknown  cruiser 
which  had  driven  through  Bering  Strait. 

Stirling's  anger  boiled  and  simmered  as  he  lay  in 
a  handcuffed  position  and  waited  for  reports  from 
Eagan,  who  had  to  be  careful.  There  was  scant 
chance  of  their  ever  capturing  the  ship.  Two  against 


130  THE  ICE  PILOT 

forty  offered  little  hope  to  dwell  upon;  another 
method  than  violence  would  have  to  be  found. 

Eagan  came  in  at  one  bell  before  midnight,  closed 
the  door,  pocketed  the  keys,  then  moved  over  to 
the  porthole  and  glanced  keenly  out. 

"How're  we  heading?"  whispered  Stirling. 

"Southwest." 

"Dead  on  St.  Paul?" 

"She's  just  been  raised  from  aft.  Marr  and 
Whitehouse  sent  the  word  forward.  The  whole 
tribe  of  Kanakas,  Gay  Islanders,  dock  rats,  and  cin- 
der-muckers— to  say  nothing  of  the  two  first-class 
engineers,  who  Ought  to  know  better — are  itching 
to  get  at  the  seals.  It  will  be  as  much  as  our  lives 
are  worth  to  interfere.  Marr  has  them  all  worked 

up." 

"Where's  the  Bear?" 

"Heaven  only  knows!  Seagraves,  her  captain, 
told  me  in  Frisco  that  he  had  an  entire  ocean  to 
guard.  There's  the  Russian  coast  and  the  Kotzebue 
and  Norton  Sound." 

"That  other  cruiser?" 

"She's  helping  him  out.  Likely  there's  an  ex- 
pedition cast  away  in  the  Arctic.  The  Kadik  was 
reported  crushed.  The  cruiser  may  have  gone 
through  to  pick  up  the  survivors." 

"Then  Marr  will  succeed?"  Stirling  hinged  himself 
upward  and  stared  at  Eagan. 

"Looks  that  way."  Eagan  closed  his  fists  and 
turned  from  the  porthole.  "Looks  bad,"  he  con- 


INTO  FORBIDDEN  WATERS  131 

tinued  with  hard  eyes.  "At  that,  Stirling,  we've 
three  or  four  hours  yet.  Much  can  happen  in  that 
time.  The  Bear  may  swing  around  St.  Paul." 

"Have  you  made  no  plans?  The  Commission 
must  know  that  you  are  on  this  ship.  They  will 
be  waiting  for  word  from  you." 

Eagan  smiled  despite  his  doubts.  "We're  two," 
he  said.  "They  don't  suspect  me,  and  I  have  a 
plan.  I  shall  land  at  the  rookeries  and  try  to  reach 
the  guard.  If  I  fail,  then  you  can  spike  the  ship  in 
some  manner  till  the  Bear  is  reached  by  wireless." 

Stirling  raised  his  wrists  and  eyed  the  handcuffs. 
"They're  tight,"  he  suggested.  "Suppose  you  let 
them  out  a  notch.  Then,  whatever  happens  to 
you  during  the  raid,  I'll  be  on  deck  and  active.  Who 
was  it  threw  that  belaying  pin?" 

"Whitehouse." 

Stirling  made  a  mental  note  for  future  guidance. 
"Now,  Eagan,"  he  continued,  "you  had  better  loosen 
the  cuffs  and  leave  me  an  automatic  revolver.  I 
hear  the  screw  slowing.  We're  right  off  the  rookery. 
Listen.  That's  the  surf  on  the  beach." 
"Worse  than  that,"  said  the  government  agent. 
"There's  also  the  sound  of  seals  barking.  Hear 
them?  I  wouldn't  wonder  if  they  sense  what  is 
coming." 

The  seaman  reached  downward  in  the  half-light 
and  inserted  a  key  in  the  handcuff  lock.  Stirling 
guided  him  with  cool  fingers,  and  soon  the  cuffs  fitted 
loosely. 


132  THE  ICE  PILOT 

"Now  the  gun,"  said  Stirling. 

Eagan  glided  to  the  porthole,  glanced  shrewdly 
out,  then  returned  to  Stirling's  side.  "Take  mine," 
the  deputy  said.  "  I  won't  need  it.  Hide  it  under 
your  mattress." 

The  icy  coolness  in  the  man's  tones  steeled  Stir- 
ling. He  lay  back  as  Eagan  went  across  the  cabin, 
opened  the  door,  and  stepped  swiftly  out  upon  the 
deck.  A  lock  clicked. 

An  impending  silence  lay  over  the  Pole  Star.  The 
shuffling  of  men  on  deck,  the  creak  of  blocks,  the 
straining  of  falls,  told  of  boats  being  lowered.  Voices 
were  muffled  as  a  light  anchor  was  dropped  at  the 
end  of  a  whale  line,  serving  to  swing  the  ship  and 
hold  it  toward  the  shelving  shore. 

Stirling  caught  the  deep  roar  of  the  bachelor  seals. 
In  fancy  he  saw  the  boats  glide  across  the  water 
and  grate  upon  the  beach.  He  saw,  in  fancy  again, 
the  raised  capstan  bars  and  the  shattered  skulls  of 
the  prey. 

A  boat  ground  against  the  ship's  side,  a  block 
creaked,  a  laugh  rang  and  was  stilled.  Then  foot- 
falls sounded,  and  the  porthole  was  darkened. 

Whitehouse  thrust  his  long  nose  through  the  open- 
ing and  squinted  toward  Stirling.  "You're  there," 
the  mate  muttered.  "Be  blym  quiet,  let  me  tell 
you  that.  It'll  all  be  over  in  'alf  a  hour.  Too  bad 
you  weren't  with  us,  Stirling." 

The  Ice  Pilot  did  not  answer  and  the  mate's  face 
disappeared  from  the  porthole.  Another  boat  touched 


INTO  FORBIDDEN  WATERS          133 

the  ship's  side.  Bundles  of  pelts  were  dragged  to 
the  forehold  and  dropped  downward.  Hushed  in- 
structions were  given  to  return  to  the  rookery. 

Stirling  rolled  over  and  felt  for  the  gun  under  his 
mattress.  Its  cold  barrel  nerved  him  to  rise  and  sit 
upon  the  edge  of  the  bunk.  He  cocked  the  trigger 
and  waited,  his  eyes  toward  the  porthole,  then 
turned  and  stared  at  the  locked  door. 

"Time  to  be  doing  something,"  he  said,  simply. 
"They're  ripping  the  rookeries  wide  open,  without 
being  discovered.  Like  as  not  they've  overpowered 
the  native  guard.  That'll  go  hard  with  them  later." 

He  stood  erect  and  worked  one  hand  free  from 
the  cuff.  Winding  the  chain  about  his  wrist,  he 
moved  toward  the  porthole  and  peered  out.  A 
black  velvet  band  stretched  over  the  sea,  and  through 
it  came  stars  as  his  eyes  accustomed  themselves  to 
the  view.  He  stared  out  over  the  ship's  rail,  to 
where  he  saw  faint  white  spots  which  marked  the 
drift  ice.  Beyond  these  was  a  silver  running  ripple. 

The  position  of  the  ship  with  its  whale-line  an- 
chorage was  close  to  the  hidden  beach.  Stirling 
sensed  the  slow  rise  of  the  waves,  which  marked 
shallow  bottom.  The  idea  came  to  him  that  if 
the  line  were  cut  which  led  to  the  anchor,  the  Pole 
Star  most  certainly  would  go  ashore.  Once  ashore, 
the  crew  would  be  unable  to  work  her  out  in  time 
to  escape.  Eagan  could  be  expected  to  give  some 
sort  of  alarm,  and  the  guard  on  the  other  islands  of 
the  seal  group  would  descend  upon  them. 


134  THE  ICE  PILOT 

"I'll  chance  it,"  said  Stirling.  "Here  goes  for 
the  door  and  a  rush  to  the  anchor  rope.  I  didn't 
hear  them  drop  a  chain." 

He  took  one  step  away  from  the  porthole.  A 
gliding  foot  sounded  outside  upon  the  ship's  planks, 
and  he  stood  rigid,  then  leaned  toward  the  bunk. 

The  footfall  was  repeated.  It  came  closer  to  the 
corner  of  the  galley  house,  and  a  voice  sounded  from 
somewhere  forward.  A  rattle  of  oars  swung  up  the 
slight  breeze,  and  seals  barked  from  the  red  shores  of 
the  rookery. 

"Quiet!" 

Stirling  touched  the  side  of  his  bunk  with  both 
hands,  bent,  and  prepared  to  roll  over.  The  hand- 
cuff chain  clicked  metallically. 

"Quiet!"  The  sound  was  faint  and  came  to  him 
as  a  warning.  He  waited,  his  shoulders  lifted  with 
his  deep  breathing,  his  eyes  fastened  upon  the  velvet 
circle  of  the  open  porthole. 

A  face  came  slowly  into  view  like  the  shadow  of  the 
moon  crossing  the  disk  of  the  sun,  and  Stirling  drop- 
ped his  jaw  in  wonderment.  It  was  far  too  soft  a 
face  for  any  of  the  crew.  The  eyes  that  stared  in 
at  his  were  deep  blue  and  trustful. 

"Quiet!" 

"Yes;  yes,"  he  answered,  feeling  a  rush  of  blood 
to  his  cheeks. 

"Take  this  quickly." 

Stirling  rose  by  straightening  his  legs  and  back 
and  stepped  over  the  floor  of  his  cabin,  his  unshackled 


INTO  FORBIDDEN  WATERS          135 

hand  reaching  out.  He  touched  the  edge  of  the 
porthole,  and  his  fingers  groped  outside.  They  came 
in  contact  with  a  tiny  pearl-handled  revolver.  He 
drew  it  in  and  wondered  at  its  diminutive  size. 

"Quiet,  Mr.  Stirling!" 

He  tossed  the  revolver  to  his  bunk  and  turned 
toward  the  porthole.  A  cupid's  bow  of  red  lips, 
through  which  shone  white  teeth  that  met  in  an 
even  row,  greeted  him. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  huskily.  "What— who 
are  you?" 

A  pink  finger  touched  the  lips  so  invitingly  of- 
fered; golden-bronze  hair,  capped  with  a  tam-o'- 
shanter,  bobbed  and  moved  away,  then  came  again 
as  the  blue  eyes  searched  about  the  gloom  of  the 
cabin. 

A  sound  of  more  oars  in  locks  struck  up  the  wind ;  a 
voice  warned  from  the  quarter-deck;  and  a  shuffle 
echoed  along  the  deck  in  the  lee  of  the  galley  house. 

"Who — why  did  you  come  to  me?" 

The  lips  closed  doubtfully  and  then  opened.  "  You 
will  know  soon  enough,"  said  the  girl.  "I'm  going 
now.  Be  careful,  Mr.  Stirling.  Be  very  careful,  for 
my  sake.  Don't  do  anything  that  would  endanger 
your  life — or  the  captain's." 

"Are  you  the  captain's ?" 

Stirling  never  finished  the  question.  A  white 
pallor  drove  the  colour  from  the  girl's  cheeks,  and  she 
was  gone  even  as  he  stared  out  through  the  open 
porthole.  Her  footfalls  sounded  along  the  deck, 


136  THE  ICE  PILOT 

died  away  aft,  and  there  came  then  the  heavier 
feet  of  a  sailor.  He  rounded  the  corner  of  the  galley 
house,  peered  over  the  rail  to  the  north  and  east, 
and  then  strode  by  Stirling. 

A  heavy  capstan  bar  was  over  his  shoulder,  an 
open  knife  gleamed  from  his  belt,  his  jaw  was  set 
and  thrust  slightly  outward.  Stirling  recognized 
in  him  one  of  the  Frisco  dock  rats  who  had  been  most 
aggressive  in  the  attack  when  Whitehouse  had 
hurled  the  belaying  pin. 

Stirling  turned  and  glanced  at  the  panels  of  the 
door;  they  were  not  strong.  He  lifted  his  shoulder 
and  faced  about.  He  could  break  to  freedom  in  one 
bull-like  lunge;  afterward  would  come  the  severing 
of  the  anchor  line  and  the  casting  away  of  the  ship. 

He  dwelt  upon  the  exact  situation  and  eyed  the 
velvet  beyond  the  porthole.  The  stars  were  paling. 
They  had  changed  from  white  light  points  to  yellow 
specks;  they  swam  and  danced  in  the  morning's 
haze.  An  Arctic  sun  would  soon  be  leaping  the  east- 
ern horizon.  * 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

WITH    THE    SPEED   OF    WIND 

THE  girl  had  given  him  courage,  since  her  tiny 
offering  still  lay  upon  the  bunk.  Unconsciously 
he  reached  for  it  and  twirled  the  silver-plated 
barrel.  It  was  fully  loaded  with  six  cartridges. 

"Two  guns,"  he  said.     "Til  go!" 

He  moved  not  too  quickly  to  the  door  and  bent 
down.  The  lock  was  on  the  inside,  held  by  four  small 
screws.  He  tested  the  bolt  by  pressing  against  a 
panel  with  his  shoulder.  A  click  sounded  in  the 
chamfer. 

Searching  his  pocket  with  his  freed  hand,  he 
touched  a  ten-cent  piece,  drew  this  out  and  eyed  it. 
It  would  do  as  a  screw  driver,  and  he  found  the  slot  of 
the  first  screw.  It  turned  easily  enough  then; 
rapidly  he  worked  with  every  nerve  alert.  Boats 
arrived  and  pushed  off  from  the  side  of  the  ship;  the 
crew  were  busy  in  the  forehold;  a  watch-tackle 
creaked;  and  coarse  remarks  rolled  along  the  deck. 
The  poachers  were  intent  on  getting  the  seal  pelts 
stored  below  before  morning. 

Stirling  removed  the  third  screw  from  the  lock, 
pocketed,  it  and  drew  back  for  a  last  glance  through 
the  porthole.  A  streak  of  yellow  and  a  flaming 

137 


i38  THE  ICE  PILOT 

whorl  had  shot  athwart  the  sky;  dawn  was  breaking 
swiftly  in  the  Arctic  east.  It  presaged  a  cloudless 
day. 

He  returned  to  the  door,  after  listening  intently, 
and  tore  the  loosened  lock  from  the  woodwork. 
Tossing  this  to  the  bunk,  he  strained  with  his  finger- 
tips, digging  deeply  into  the  nearest  panel.  The 
door  slid  open  on  noiseless  guides,  and  a  breath  of 
salty  air  greeted  him. 

He  felt  to  see  if  both  revolvers  were  in  his  pockets, 
then,  working  rapidly,  arranged  a  rude  dummy  in 
the  bunk.  This  he  formed  out  of  a  blanket  and  two 
southwesters,  so  that  it  resembled  the  sleeping  form 
of  a  man.  He  stepped  to  the  door  with  a  dry  chuckle 
of  satisfaction,  and  went  out  on  deck  and  close  under 
the  rail  without  being  detected. 

Raising  his  bare  head,  he  glanced  toward  the  island, 
with  its  looming  shadows  and  rocky  walls.  Below 
these  walls  were  the  homes  of  the  great  bull  seals 
and  their  mates.  The  animals  had  been  disturbed, 
and  their  barking  and  roar  blended  with  the  sound 
of  the  waves  on  the  sand. 

Beyond,  and  to  leeward  of  the  bull  herd,  were 
richer  rookeries  where  had  gathered  the  bachelor 
seals  and  those  denied  the  other  homes.  It  was 
to  this  portion  of  the  beach  that  Marr  had  guided  his 
hunters,  and  they  had  made  short  work  of  most  of 
the  bachelor  seals.  They  had  plied  capstan  bars, 
while  the  Kanakas  and  Gay  Islanders  had  done  the 
skinning. 


WITH  THE  SPEED  OF  WIND         139 

Stirling  saw  the  white  sheen  of  a  whaleboat  being 
paddled  out  to  the  ship.  He  reached  into  his  pocket, 
removed  the  automatic  which  Eagan  had  given  him, 
and  crept  on  hands  and  knees  toward  the  forepeak. 

Five  of  the  crew  were  below  in  the  hold  from 
whence  a  light  struck  upward  and  illuminated  the 
standing  rigging  and  spars  of  the  ship.  A  voice 
called  from  the  quarter-deck.  It  was  Whitehouse 
who  stood  there,  Marr  having  gone  ashore  with  the 
raiders. 

Stirling  watched  his  chance  and  stood  erect. 
There  seemed  no  way  to  fail.  The  ship  swung 
with  gentle  tugging  in  the  bight  of  a  whale  line  that 
had  been  lashed  to  a  small  anchor.  The  double 
line  showed  distinctly  from  the  position  where  he 
stood.  He  had  but  to  rush  forward,  lean  over,  sever 
the  line,  and  get  back  to  the  cabin  before  Whitehouse 
discovered  that  the  ship  was  adrift. 

The  Ice  Pilot  turned  and  stared  along  the  deck 
to  where  the  mate's  figure  moved  grotesquely  behind 
the  canvas  rai,l.  Two  or  three  seamen  had  hurried 
aft  to  meet  the  outcoming  boat,  and  they  mounted 
the  poop  ladder  on  the  weather  side  and  joined  White- 
house. 

Stirling  reached  the  heel  of  the  foremast  after 
cautiously  rounding  the  fore  hatch.  His  eyes 
hardened  as  he  lifted  his  hand,  poised  it  before  him, 
and  took  one  step  toward  the  capstan  and  the  star- 
board-anchor davit  to  which  the  whale  line  had  been 
fastened. 


i4o  THE  ICE  PILOT 

Then  like  a  scarlet  snake  with  myriad  scales, 
there  rose  from  the  island  a  rocket  which  reached 
to  the  higher  skies,  curved,  and  burst  into  a  star 
shower  of  green  and  blue  lights.  The  flare  from  this 
rocket  brought  out  the  rookeries  and  the  whaleboats; 
the  dead,  skinned  seals;  the  crouched  figures  of  the 
crew  ashore.  It  bathed  the  entire  ocean  with  sinister 
light;  it  struck  a  spike  of  terror  into  the  raiders' 
hearts. 

They  threw  down  skinning  knives  and  bludgeons. 
They  charged  down  across  the  red  sands  and  thrust 
out  the  boats,  glancing  back  with  blanched  faces  as 
they  frantically  rowed  toward  the  ship. 

Stirling  heard  Whilehouse  roll  out  a  string  of 
oaths  which  were  as  lurid  as  the  rocket's  warning 
glare.  A  stout  shout  sounded  from  Marr,  who  was 
in  the  leading  whaleboat.  Fire  doors  were  opened 
below  deck,  scoops  grated  across  the  stokehold 
plates,  the  first  engineer  climbed  swiftly  to  the  com- 
panion and  sprang  out  on  deck. 

The  seal  raiders  were  discovered;  the  guards  had 
been  warned  on  the  other  islands  of  the  group.  A 
wireless  message  was  even  then  flashing  across  the 
waters  of  the  Bering  Sea.  The  Bear,  or  some  other 
ship,  would  be  down  upon  them. 

Stirling  realized  exactly  what  had  happened,  and 
his  brain  worked  swiftly.  There  was  yet  time  to 
cut  the  anchor  lines,  but  this  would  be  done  by  the 
returning  crew.  In  no  other  way  could  they  sheer 
the  ship  from  the  shore  and  make  to  open  sea. 


WITH  THE  SPEED  OF  WIND         141 

He  stepped  back,  brushed  against  a  seaman  who 
had  risen  from  the  forehatch,  and  rounded  the  galley 
house  before  the  startled  sailor  could  detect  who  had 
pressed  against  him. 

The  door  to  the  cabin  was  slightly  open.  Stirling 
thrust  through  his  fingers  and  tugged,  then  slipped 
inside  and  closed  the  door.  Still  thinking  clearly, 
he  shoved  the  two  guns  under  the  mattress  of  his 
bunk,  screwed  the  lock  back  in  place,  then  lay  down 
and  replaced  the  cuff  over  his  freed  wrist. 

A  quiet  smile  wreathed  his  face  as  he  listened  to  the 
sounds  which  floated  in  through  the  open  porthole. 
Curses  and  commands  mingled  in  a  jargon ;  boats  were 
hurriedly  hoisted  to  their  positions  on  the  davits; 
seamen  sprang  to  the  decks  and  rushed  forward. 

A  bell  sounded  in  the  engine  room;  the  screw 
thrashed  and  bit  deeply  into  the  sea.  The  Pole 
Star  swung,  cleared  the  beach  by  a  scant  cable's 
length,  and  drove  out  toward  the  north  and  east. 

A  grim  face  darkened  the  porthole,  and  Marr's 
glance  bored  the  gloom  of  the  cabin  until  he  dis- 
cerned Stirling's  form  on  the  bunk. 

"You're  there!"  he  said,  bitterly.  "Well,  you'll 
stay  there  for  some  time.  You  and  that  rat  Eagan 
came  near  spoiling  our  plans." 

Stirling  did  not  answer  the  irate  skipper,  thinking 
an  answer  beneath  him.  It  was  plainly  evident, 
however,  that  Eagan  was  out  of  the  lives  of  the  men 
aboard  the  Pole  Star.  He  had  awakened  the  entire 
Bering  Sea  against  the  poachers. 


i42  THE  ICE  PILOT 

Driving  rapidly,  under  all  steam  and  a  well-set 
foresail  and  main,  the  Pole  Star  lay  the  island  of  St. 
Paul  over  her  counter  as  the  sun  brightened  the 
waters  of  the  Bering  Sea  to  the  eastward. 

The  alarm  had  been  given;  they  were  in  great 
danger.  Watchers  on  the  island,  including  Eagan, 
would  see  the  poacher  going  spars  down  before  they 
laid  aside  their  glasses.  Its  course  would  be  given 
to  the  first  government  boat  raised  by  wireless.  It 
was  more  than  probable  that  the  Bear  would  take 
up  the  chase  by  noon. 

Stirling  felt  the  swift  shift  of  helm  which  came  at 
sunrise.  Marr  had  realized  his  danger  and  had 
sheered  toward  the  west  at  least  two  points.  This 
course,  by  magnetic  compass,  would  bring  the  ship 
broadside  of  Siberia  and  into  the  wide  mouth  of  the 
Gulf  of  Anadir. 

The  galley  boy,  accompanied  by  Whitehouse, 
appeared  at  the  cabin  door  as  the  ship's  bell  was 
struck  eight  times.  The  mate  noticed  the  loose 
condition  of  the  lock  as  he  inserted  his  own  key.  He 
stepped  inside  and  examined  the  screws  which  Stir- 
ling had  hastily  replaced,  his  glance  shrewd  and 
hard. 

"You'll  go  aft!"  he  said  in  bitter  tones.  "We're 
not  taking  any  chances  with  you  from  now  on.  It's 
a  blym  long  woiy  from  here  to  the  port  we'll  reach 
some  doiy." 

Stirling  sat  upright  and  reached  for  the  food  which 
the  boy  had  brought  on  a  tin  tray.  He  drank  the 


WITH  THE  SPEED  OF  WIND         143 

coffee,  smiling  as  Whitehouse  lingered  in  the  open 
doorway. 

The  two  men  locked  glances.  Stirling's  eyes 
held,  steady  and  penetrating,  but  Whitehouse 
turned  with  a  quick  oath.  "I'll  be  back,"  he  said 
over  his  shoulder  as  he  vanished  from  the  opening. 

The  galley  boy  was  gathering  up  the  tins  and  cups 
when  Marr  appeared,  followed  by  the  mate.  The 
little  skipper  looked  somewhat  the  worse  for  the 
events  of  the  night — his  face  was  unshaven,  a  splotch 
of  dried  seal's  blood  showed  on  his  cheek,  one  hand 
was  bandaged,  and  his  eyes  were  sunken  and  red- 
rimmed. 

"  Had  your  lock  off,"  he  said,  as  he  clapped  a  hand 
to  his  side  pocket  and  strode  into  the  cabin.  "Well, 
you  didn't  do  much.  Eagan  did  it  all.  At  that  we 
got  enough  seals  to  make  expenses." 

Stirling  crossed  his  wrists  and  clicked  the  irons. 

"Better  release  me,"  he  said  with  sincere  direct- 
ness. "  It'll  go  mighty  hard,  Marr,  as  it  is.  A  little 
more  and  you  will  swing  as  sure  as  there  is  a  law  in 
this  sea.  I  don't  doubt  that  Eagan  will  manage  to 
run  you  down.  It  isn't  the  time  of  MacLane  and  the 
others  whom  you  have  imitated." 

"Confound  you  and  Eagan — the  stool!  He  don't 
know  my  course." 

"He  knows  you  gammed  that  Japanese  sealer  off 
Rat  Island.  That's  almost  enough  to  know.  I'd 
advise  you  to  swing  to  Dutch  Pass,  surrender  to 
the  port  officer  there,  and  get  off  light." 


144  THE  ICE  PILOT 

Marr  whipped  out  a  string  of  imprecations.  "  I'm 
a  hard  man!"  he  finished  by  saying.  "I  brook  no 
interference.  You'll  go  aft  and  into  a  strong  room, 
where  you'll  stay  for  the  balance  of  the  voyage,  eh, 
Mr.  Whitehouse?" 

"This  cabin  won't  'old  'im,"  the  mate  declared, 
fumbling  with  the  lock.  "E's  too  blym  near  the 
crew  and  the  steerage.  The  starboard  room  aft  the 
cross  alleyway  is  the  place  for  our  friend  here." 

"  It's  too  darned  good ! "  exclaimed  Marr.  " Stand 
up,  Stirling.  We'll  lead  you  to  your  new  home." 

Stirling  was  of  two  minds.  There  was  scant  chance 
for  resistance  as  he  twisted  and  untwisted  the  hand- 
cuff chain.  He  glanced  about  the  cabin.  The  objects 
of  personal  value  most  certainly  would  be  stolen  by 
the  crew  or  the  galley  crowd,  and  he  prized  a  few  of 
these  beyond  price. 

"I  want  my  things,"  he  said  in  cool  resignation. 
"  Let  me  bundle  up  a  few  geegaws  and  I  '11  come  along. 
It'll  take  me  five  minutes." 

Marr  tapped  his  side  pocket  suggestively.  "Go 
ahead,"  he  said,  backing  from  the  cabin  and  glancing 
meaningly  toward  Whitehouse.  "  Five  minutes,  you 
get.  No  more!  Take  off  his  cuffs." 

The  two  seamen  stood  between  the  cabin  door 
and  the  rail  of  the  ship,  and  whispered  each  to  the 
other,  but  Stirling  could  not  catch  their  words.  He 
stood  erect,  turned  slowly,  and  reached  under  the 
mattress  as  Marr  gripped  Whitehouse  by  the  arm  and 
pointed  toward  the  horizon. 


WITH  THE  SPEED  OF  WIND         145 

Stirling's  hands  came  away  with  the  little  revolver 
which  the  girl  had  passed  in  to  him.  This  he  thrust 
down  between  his  collar  and  neck,  and  its  chill  sent 
a  remembered  thrill  through  his  body. 

Whitehouse  stuck  his  head  within  the  doorway. 
"Be  deuced  quick  habout  hit!"  he  snarled.  "Get 
your  traps  and  come  along.  There's  a  smudge  o' 
smoke  to  windward." 

"Glad  of  that!"  said  Stirling,  stooping  on  one 
knee  and  reaching  for  his  dunnage  bag.  "  I  hope 
it's  the  Bear  or  the  Corwin  or  the  cutter  we  saw  going 
for  the  Arctic.  She's  about  due  back." 

"Bally  fine  chance!"  Whitehouse  snickered. 
"More  likely  she's  a  blubber  hunter  tryin'  out.  It's 
more  than  likely." 

Stirling  knew  better  than  this.  No  ships  in  the 
Bering  whaled  for  oil;  that  pursuit  was  confined  to 
Southern  seas. 

Marr  was  plainly  nervous  as  he  led  Stirling  toward 
the  after  part  of  the  Pole  Star,  and  kept  glancing  to 
the  south  and  west.  He  halted  on  the  poop  steps 
and  stared  downward. 

Whitehouse  followed  Stirling.  The  mate  had 
motioned  the  crew  to  one  side,  and  they  had  gathered 
in  the  waist,  jeering  as  the  trio  passed  them.  They, 
too,  were  nervous.  The  smudge  of  smoke  had 
widened  to  a  splotch  which  streaked  the  horizon;  a 
ship  of  some  kind  was  dashing  parallel  to  the  course 
taken  by  the  Pole  Star. 

The  chase  was  on. 


146  THE  ICE  PILOT 

Stirling  hitched  his  dunnage  bag  under  his  left 
arm  and  turned  as  he  reached  the  quarter-deck.  His 
eyes  were  the  best  upon  the  whaler,  and  he  knew 
every  ship  that  came  into  Bering  Sea.  He  threw  all 
his  power  into  determining  the  nature  of  the  fast- 
flying  stranger,  then  he  smiled  slowly.  She  was  the 
Bear.  A  vague  sense  of  the  position  of  the  masts 
and  the  rake  of  the  funnel  told  him  that  the  redoubt- 
able revenue  cutter  had  received  Eagan's  message 
from  St.  Paul  Island.  She  was  coming  with  the 
speed  of  the  wind,  and  was  not  more  than  seven  knots 
astern. 

Marr  realized  that  Stirling  had  detected  the  name 
of  the  pursuer,  and  his  face  clouded.  He  shouted 
an  order  to  the  wheelsman,  then  sprang  to  the  speak- 
ing tube  which  led  down  to  the  engine  room.  A 
volcano  of  smoke  belched  from  the  Pole  Star's  funnel. 
She  swerved  like  a  skater  on  ice,  and  the  deck  planks 
vibrated  and  trembled.  A  bellow  of  rage  and  de- 
fiance came  from  the  crew  at  the  change  of  course; 
they  lined  the  rail  and  stared  over  the  sparkling 
sea,  shaking  their  grimy  fists  and  calling  down 
anathemas. 

"Come  on,"  cried  Whitehouse  into  Stirling's  ear. 
"Get  down  to  your  cabin.  It'll  be  a  blym  long  time 
before  that  revenue  ship  gets  in  range  of  us.  I  think 
we  are  the  faster." 

Stirling  followed  the  mate  through  the  cabin  com- 
panion and  down  to  an  alleyway.  At  the  star- 
board end  of  this  Whitehouse  inserted  a  key  in  a 


WITH  THE  SPEED  OF  WIND         147 

lock  and  slid  open  a  door,  motioning  inside  with  a 
jerk  of  his  thumb. 

The  Ice  Pilot  found  himself  in  a  small  stateroom 
which  was  trimmed  with  maple  and  white  tiling.  He 
dropped  his  dunnage  bag  as  the  mate  closed  the 
door  and  turned  the  bolt,  and  his  eyes  roamed  about 
the  cabin. 

The  single  porthole,  set  deep  in  the  double  skin 
of  the  ship,  was  brass-rimmed  and  no  larger  than  a 
small  dinner  plate.  It  could  be  opened  by  turning 
two  bronze  wing  screws,  and  the  view  through  it  was 
upon  a  patch  of  water,  with  swift-flowing  ice  darting 
by. 

"Prison  or  palace?"  he  said  as  he  turned  and 
studied  the  cabin,  swaying  with  the  motion  of  the 
ship.  The  list  was  slightly  to  port.  Some  sail  had 
been  spread  to  catch  a  light  breeze  which  had  sprung 
up  with  the  sun.  The  deck  overhead  resounded 
with  gliding  steps;  Marr  and  the  mate  were  doing 
everything  possible  to  hold  their  speed. 

The  cabin's  furnishings  were  yachtlike  and  ser- 
viceable. The  bunk  was  covered  with  a  hair  mattress 
and  an  eiderdown  counterpane.  Over  it  were  two 
brass  racks  for  luggage  and  dunnage,  and  on  the 
opposite  wall  a  washbowl  and  towel  rack  could  be 
folded  into  a  seat.  Pictures  were  strewed  about, 
which  were  all  marines  painted  by  a  decorator  of 
merit. 

Stirling  glanced  from  one  to  the  other.  Tropic 
scenes  brought  to  mind  the  incongruity  of  their 


148  THE  ICE  PILOT 

latitude — the  Pole  Star  was  hustling  from  the  equator 
as  fast  as  steam  could  drive  her.  Her  last  course 
was  toward  the  barren  land  of  Siberia  and  the  upper 
headland  of  the  Gulf  of  Anadir.  It  was  terra  in- 
cognita to  most  seamen  and  all  save  a  few  whale- 
ships  or  traders. 

Stirling  examined  the  lock  of  his  door.  It  was  far 
stronger  than  the  one  in  the  galley  cabin,  and  had 
been  set  within  the  wood  and  mortised  so  that  only 
a  small,  flat  keyhole  showed. 

He  bent  his  head  and  listened.  A  step  had  glided 
along  the  alleyway.  It  was  repeated  in  shuffling 
motion,  going  from  starboard  to  port  and  back  again 
across  the  ship.  Whitehouse  had  left  a  seaman  on 
guard. 

Stirling  stood  erect  and  squared  his  shoulders, 
towering  almost  to  the  dunnage-racks  over  the  white 
bunk.  His  eyes  hardened  as  he  glanced  from  the 
green-filled  porthole  to  the  door  and  back.  The  cabin 
was  a  secure  prison,  as  Marr  had  said.  It  would 
require  considerable  ingenuity  to  escape  from  it. 
The  sentry  on  guard  was  sure  to  be  armed  with  one 
of  the  sealing  rifles;  he  would  be  changed  each  watch. 

The  ship  hurtled  onward  toward  the  Siberian 
coast.  The  screw  thrashed  astern,  bit  deeply  into 
the  waves,  and  thrashed  again — each  time  the  foam 
boiled  astern  the  ship  trembled  and  racked. 

Bells  clanged;  shouts  sounded;  running  feet  were 
overhead;  blocks  creaked;  the  wind  freshened  and 
called  for  more  canvas.  The  menace  astern  crept 


WITH  THE  SPEED  OF  WIND         149 

up  to  a  four-mile  range.  A  gun  boomed  across  the 
wild  waste  of  Northern  waters.  A  shot  fell  to  wind- 
ward; another  followed.  Then,  and  slowly,  the  grip 
of  the  pursuer  was  shaken  off.  Superspeed,  a  fair 
wind,  and  a  straining  stokehold  crew,  made  the 
slight  difference. 

Stirling  frowned  as  he  sensed  that  the  Bear  was 
being  distanced.  He  opened  the  porthole  glass  and 
pressed  his  face  to  the  aperture.  He  could  see  little 
save  following  seas  and  ice  floes.  The  revenue  cutter 
was  somewhere  astern.  Her  guns  were  silent;  this 
meant  that  the  range  had  increased  to  useless  dis- 
tance. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A   TOAST    FROM   MARR 

IT  WAS  sundown  and  six  bells  upon  the  Pole  Star, 
when  the  lock  clicked,  and  Whitehouse  entered. 
"Well,  old  man,"  he  said,  boastfully,  "we've 
turned  the  trick.  Night's  coming  on  and  the  Bear 
is  'ull  down.  This  is  a  regular  king's  yacht — speed 
of  the  best,  and  seaworthy." 

"It  won't  help  you — in  the  end.  How  are  you 
going  to  get  out  of  the  Bering?" 

"I'll  leave  that  to  Captain  Marr.  I  just  dropped 
in  to  see  if  you  'ad  been  fed.  I  don't  nurse  any  'ard 
feelings.  I  forgive  my  enemies,  I  do." 

In  a  way,  Whitehouse  spoke  the  truth.  Stirling 
had  always  held  a  slight  liking  for  the  English  mate, 
who  was  one  of  England's  outcasts — one  who  had  left 
his  country  for  his  country's  good.  He  had  the  rov- 
ing disposition  of  the  British,  forgave  quickly,  and 
hated  only  for  a  short  period  of  time. 

"You're  about  the  best  of  the  bunch,"  said  Stir- 
ling, feeling  his  temple  where  the  belaying  pin  had 
struck.  "  I  hold  being  knocked  out  against  you, 
but  that  is  all.  Why  don't  you  play  like  a  man, 
which  you  are,  and  prevail  on  Marr  to  abandon  his 
useless  expedition?  The  entire  shipping  world  will 

150 


A  TOAST  FROM  MARK  151 

be  searching  for  him.  You  haven't  as  much  chance 
of  escaping  as  a  thief  in  a  crowded  street." 

"That's  when  the  thief  escapes,"  Whitehouse  said. 

"I'll  take  the  regular  galley  mess  of  food,"  Stir- 
ling abruptly  remarked. 

The  mate  nodded.  "All  right,"  he  said,  backing 
to  the  door  and  standing  in  the  alleyway.  "All  right, 
old  man.  No  'ard  feelings?" 

Stirling  allowed  the  shadow  of  a  smile  to  creep 
across  his  lips.  He  eyed  the  cockney  with  a  cal- 
culating expression,  thinking  swiftly  and  to  one 
point.  "Where  are  we  heading?"  he  asked. 

"Siberia.     We  'ave  a  nice  little  cove  picked  out." 

"In  the  Gulf  of  Anadir?" 

"There  or  thereabouts." 

"Marr  don't  know  that  coast." 

"The  second  engineer  does.  'E  was  with  the  De 
Long  expedition.  Says  it's  a  bloomin'  fine  shore  all 
the  woiy  to  the  mouth  of  the  Lena." 

"Fine  is  right!"  said  Stirling  with  a  smile,  sitting 
down  on  his  bunk  and  crossing  his  legs.  "  It's  barren 
and  death-haunted.  One  thing — — 

Whitehouse  paused  with  the  key  in  his  hand. 

"There  are  revolutionists  at  that  point,"  said 
Stirling.  "Marr  should  be  careful  where  he  puts 
in." 

"They  won't  bother  us." 

"I'm  not  so  sure.  They  would  cheat  a  cheater 
any  time." 

Whitehouse  flushed.     "A  cheater?" 


i52  THE  ICE  PILOT 

"That's  what  you  and  Marr  are !  Cheaters !  You 
raided  the  rookeries.  Your  judge  will  be  the  retri- 
bution which  governs  all  wrongdoing.  Your  own 
heart  and  soul  rebel  against  what  you  have  done." 

Whitehouse  disappeared  from  the  opening,  and 
Stirling  could  hear  him  giving  instructions  to  the 
sentry.  Footfalls  sounded  going  up  the  companion 
and  along  the  quarter-deck,  and  then  the  mate  came 
back  to  the  door  and  leaned  against  the  chamfer. 
He  rubbed  his  long  red  nose  with  a  reflective  finger. 

"I'm  in  hit  too  bloomin'  far  to  get  out  now, 
Stirling.  I'll  do  my  best  by  you.  Do  you  want  to 
get  away  at  the  mouth  of  the  Anadir?  I  can  fix 
that." 

Stirling  made  a  slow  calculation  on  his  fingers. 
He  glanced  upward  toward  the  deck  and  furrowed 
his  brows.  "The  Gulf,"  he  said,  dropping  his  glance 
and  staring  at  Whitehouse,  "is  about  three  thousand 
miles  from  any  sort  of  civilization.  I  think  I'll 
stay  on  board — a  prisoner." 

The  mate  nodded  good-naturedly  and  turned 
toward  a  Kanaka,  who  brought  a  tray  upon  which 
were  two  tins  of  stew  and  a  steaming  pot  of  coffee. 

Stirling  took  these  and  set  them  at  the  end  of  the 
bunk.  Whitehouse  shrugged  his  shoulders,  ex- 
amined the  lock  with  a  smirk,  and  closed  the  door. 
The  bolt  clicked. 

The  Kanaka  resumed  his  sentry  duties,  but  Stir- 
ling had  secured  a  good  glance  at  him.  He  was 
an  old  Arctic  Ocean  harpooner,  and  had  once  sailed 


A  TOAST  FROM  MARK  153 

on  a  whaler  which  had  been  gammed  by  the  Ice  Pilot. 
He  was  the  weak  link  in  the  chain,  concluded  Stir- 
ling. A  native  would  be  more  likely  to  listen  to 
reason  than  any  member  of  the  Pole  Star's  crew. 
There  was  a  latent  loyalty  for  the  right  in  every 
Kanaka's  breast.  Many  had  been  brought  up  by 
missionaries. 

"With  a  dainty  friend  somewhere  aft,  and  a 
sentry  like  that  harpooner,  I've  a  fighting  chance," 
said  Stirling,  leaning  over  the  savoury  stew. 

The  pockets  of  his  pea-jacket  contained  a  few 
crumbs  of  tobacco  and  a  pipe.  He  set  down  the  tray 
with  the  empty  tins  upon  the  deck,  leaned  back,  and 
lighted  a  match. 

The  puffs  of  smoke  he  blew  toward  the  porthole 
were  like  salvos  of  shrapnel.  The  situation  had 
cleared  during  the  hours  since  leaving  St.  Paul 
Island  and  the  rookeries.  Whitehouse  had  become 
genial ;  the  grumbling  voices  of  the  crew  were  more 
or  less  stilled;  the  little  skipper  was  in  a  desperate 
position. 

Stirling  sensed  the  general  direction  of  the  swiftly 
driving  poacher.  The  cant  to  port,  the  general 
steadiness  of  the  wind  in  the  Bering,  the  drifting 
floes — all  these  were  points  by  which  he  guided  his 
deductions. 

Siberia  and  the  open  Gulf  of  Anadir  should  be 
reached  by  noon  of  the  day  to  come.  This  would 
mean  little  less  than  twelve  steaming  hours.  The 
Island  of  St.  Lawrence  lay  some  few  leagues  to  the 


154  THE  ICE  PILOT 

northward.  The  Bear,  provided  she  had  not  given 
up  the  pursuit,  might  search  the  shores  of  that  island. 
There  were  two  native  settlements  on  the  western 
coast,  and  these  were  a  likely  refuge  for  poachers  and 
those  who  lived  beyond  the  law. 

There  came  then  to  Stirling's  straining  ears  the 
soft  sound  of  a  piano.  He  set  his  pipe  on  a  rack  at  the 
head  of  the  bunk  and  moved  stealthily  toward  the 
door.  Pressing  his  ear  to  the  panel  of  this,  he 
listened.  He  heard  the  shuffling  of  the  sentry's  feet, 
and  above  this  sound  lilted  a  thin,  pure  note  which 
could  come  only  from  a  woman's  throat.  It  rose, 
fell,  and  was  raised  once  more  into  a  remembered 
song: 

"Whither,  oh,  splendid  ship,  thy  white  sails  crowding, 

Leaning  across  the  bosom  of  the  urgent  West, 
Thou  fearest  nor  sea  rising,  nor  sky  clouding, 
Whither  away,  fair  rover,  and  what  thy  quest?" 

Stirling  breathed  with  deep  intakes  of  close  breath. 
He  caught  the  swing  of  the  words  as  if  they  were 
attuned  to  his  own  thoughts,  and  they  steadied  him 
in  his  determination  to  remain  aboard  the  Pole  Star 
and  ascertain  what  manner  of  woman  or  girl  lived 
in  the  after  ship.  She  was  related  to  Marr — that 
much  was  evident.  He  wondered  if  she  were  his 
wife,  sister,  or  ward.  One  of  the  three  would  explain 
her  being  aboard.  None  would  explain  why  she 
seemed  to  be  almost  a  prisoner. 

He  listened  for  more  music,  and  now  and  then  the 


A  TOAST  FROM  MARR  155 

piano  throbbed  a  vibrant  note.  At  last  it  was  still. 
There  alone  remained  the  swish  of  the  waves,  the 
creak  of  blocks,  the  sliding  footfalls  on  the  quarter- 
deck, to  mark  their  passage. 

The  last  light  of  day  died  from  the  surface  of  the 
waters,  and  the  first  bright  star  lay  horizon  down. 
It  came  up  grandly  out  of  the  east  and  from  the 
direction  of  Alaska,  shining  through  the  open  port- 
hole like  an  eye  of  promise.  Stirling  rose  from  the 
seat  he  had  taken  on  the  bunk  and  turned  out  the 
electric  light.  He  leaned  back  and  studied  this  star, 
finding  solace  and  resolve  in  its  white  rays. 

Daybreak,  at  the  early  hour  of  two  bells,  brought 
Stirling  out  of  his  dreams  and  into  the  grip  of  a  com- 
ing dawn.  He  washed  himself  and  glanced  ruefully 
at  his  unshaven  features,  but  there  was  no  way  to 
remedy  the  matter.  Seamen  in  the  Bering  and 
Arctic  often  went  for  an  entire  season  without  shav- 
ing. 

He  thought  of  the  girl  and  her  song  as  he  idled 
through  the  hour  which  followed.  She  had  grown 
closer  to  him  in  some  manner.  It  was  as  if  there 
were  two  prisoners  on  one  ship.  Her  voice  had  con- 
tained the  vibrant  note  of  anxiety.  She  had  asked 
in  a  manner  which  he  could  fathom,  where  the  tall 
poacher  was  going?  She,  too,  was  gripped  by  the 
mystery. 

The  first  glimpse  of  the  haze-surrounded  sun, 
which  rose  over  the  Bering  Sea,  was  the  magnet  that 
drew  Stirling  away  from  his  thoughts  of  the  girl  and 


156  THE  ICE  PILOT 

to  the  open  porthole.  The  sea  was  specked  and 
laced  with  drift  ice  and  whale  slick.  Old  "grand- 
pas" floated  by — grimy  and  honeycombed  from 
the  action  of  the  brine.  Walruses  and  seals  dived 
from  these  ancient  ice  clusters.  Birds  wheeled  away 
from  the  course  of  the  fast-driving  poacher. 

The  course  had  been  changed  overnight,  this  Stir- 
ling detected  with  a  guilty  start  as  he  noted  the 
position  of  the  sun.  They  were  now  well  within 
the  Gulf  of  Anadir,  and  the  ice  which  floated  about 
had  just  been  detached  from  the  shore.  Its  surface 
was  partly  snow. 

Seven  bells  brought  the  first  glimpse  of  land  to 
Stirling.  A  dark  promontory  lifted  into  the  Arctic 
sky,  and  this  was  crowned  with  a  hedge  of  North- 
ern pines.  Green  moss  grew  down  the  folds  of  the 
headland.  A  tundra  stuck  out  from  the  lower  silt. 
They  were  skirting  the  wild  coast  of  Anadir. 

"Siberia,"  said  Stirling.  "What  a  land!"  He 
turned  from  the  porthole  and  studied  the  interior 
of  the  cabin.  The  little  revolver  which  the  girl  had 
given  to  him  was  still  within  the  grip  of  his  garter. 
He  reached  downward  and  loosened  it,  examining 
its  butt  and  silver-plated  barrel.  It  was  loaded. 

He  eyed  the  door  leading  to  the  alleyway,  and 
pocketed  the  revolver  as  steps  sounded  outside. 

Whitehouse  shouted  in  through  the  keyhole: 
" Hold  steady  and  wait,  old  man.  I'll  see  that  you're 
well  fed  by  eight  bells.  No  'ard  feelings,  eh?" 

Stirling  did  not  answer.     He  moved  about,  how- 


A  TOAST  FROM  MARR  157 

ever,  and  otherwise  let  the  mate  know  that  he  was 
still  aboard  the  ship. 

Eight  bells  did  not  bring  the  promised  food.  In- 
stead, the  ship  slowed  down,  and  at  last  glided 
across  the  sea  with  her  screw  still. 

The  sound  of  running  feet  came  to  Stirling  who 
sprang  to  the  porthole  and  glanced  out.  They  were 
rounding  a  rocky  wall  whose  fissures  gushed  white 
from  descending  torrents  of  snow  water.  The  ship 
ported,  steadied  in  slow  circling,  and  entered  a 
mountain-encompassed  harbour  as  lovely  and  as 
lonely  as  any  in  all  the  world. 

Her  taper  yards  scraped  the  stones  to  starboard 
and  port,  her  keel  once  touched  a  sandy  split,  but 
she  went  on  by  the  billowed  pressure  of  the  wind 
on  the  canvas.  The  way  opened  to  a  glen  in  solid 
granite  and  schist,  and  here  the  anchor  chain  was  let 
go  with  a  rusty  clank.  The  stern  swung,  almost 
touching  a  narrow  shelf,  up  from  which  an  agile 
man  could  climb,  or  down  to  which  he  might  lower 
himself. 

A  jubilant  voice  rolled  throughout  the  sheltered 
ship.  It  came  from  Whitehouse,  who  had  danced 
upon  the  quarter-deck  planks  in  his  glee.  "AH 
'ands  aft  to  spice  the  main  brace!" 

Stirling  understood  this  last  order.  The  crew, 
the  engine-room  force,  the  stokehold  gang,  and  the 
steerage  crowd  were  invited  to  empty  a  case  of 
whisky. 

Marr's  toast  to  his  fellow  conspirators  was  given 


158  THE  ICE  PILOT 

with  a  bold  attempt  to  hold  their  confidence.  "  Drink 
hearty,  mates!"  he  exclaimed.  "  Drink  to  the  eternal 
confusion  of  the  revenue  cutters!" 

Stirling  hardly  smiled,  but  scraped  his  pockets 
and  found  some  few  crumbs  of  tobacco.  These  he 
pressed  into  his  pipe  and  lighted  with  a  sulphur 
match.  "I'll  smoke  to  that  promise,"  he  said, 
simply.  "A  bear  never  lets  go  when  its  grip  fas- 
tens." 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE    MOVING    SHADOWS 

CNDLOCKED  and  secure,  the  crew  of  the  Pole 
Star  worked  out  the  day  by  odd  jobs  about 
the  deck.  Stirling  heard  them  swabbing 
down,  and  caught  the  cockney  accent  of  the  mate 
raised  in  cheerful  encouragement  as  the  skipper  sent 
forward  more  grog. 

The  long  Arctic  day  died  slowly  out  over  the  waters 
of  the  Bering  and  the  Gulf  of  Anadir.  The  waves 
which  beat  upon  the  rocky  headlands,  buttressing  the 
tiny  harbour,  curled  inward  and  ran  with  seething 
foam  up  a  shelving  beach. 

Marr  had  made  one  trip  to  the  outer  sea.  He  re- 
turned and  called  Whitehouse  to  the  poop.  Their 
voices  were  raised  incautiously,  and  Stirling  heard 
the  Bear  mentioned.  The  boastful  laugh  which 
followed  showed  that  the  revenue  cutter  had  gone 
by  without  being  aware  of  the  harbour's  entrance. 
The  view  from  the  sea  was  one  of  solid  rock  and 
towering  headland. 

It  was  at  five  bells  that  Stirling  heard  steps  within 
the  alleyway.  The  sentry  had  been  sleeping  on  duty, 
and  he  woke  as  Marr's  voice  broke  the  stillness  of  the 
ship.  The  lock  of  his  door  clicked,  and  Stirling 

159 


160  THE  ICE  PILOT 

switched  on  his  electric  light  and  waited,  his  breast 
exposed,  showing  the  hairy  massiveness  of  his  shoul- 
ders and  the  supple  muscles  beneath. 

Marr  came  in  with  cautious  eyes,  glanced  about 
the  cabin,  stared  at  the  porthole  thoughtfully,  then 
lifted  his  chin  to  Stirling.  "How  are  things  with 
you?"  Marr  asked.  "Getting  along  all  right?" 

"As  well  as  could  be  expected  on  this  criminal 
ship!" 

Marr  frowned  and  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the 
bunk.  "Don't  take  it  that  way,"  he  said,  fingering 
the  horn  buttons  of  his  natty  pea-jacket.  "Come 
over  with  us  and  see  the  thing  through.  We'll  wait 
around  here  a  few  days  more,  then 

The  pause  was  suggestive.  Stirling  backed  slowly 
to  the  skin  of  the  ship  and  lowered  his  hands  to  his 
sides.  "Then  what?"  he  asked. 

"Ah,  there  is  a  wide  world  to  roam  in.  There 
are  many  ports  of  call." 

Stirling  clenched  his  fists;  his  eyes  were  levelled 
toward  the  assured  skipper.  "I  think  you  had 
better  get  out  of  here!"  Stirling  said,  sharply.  "I 
don't  want  to  listen  to  suggestions  from  you.  Brave 
men  do  not  raid  the  rookeries.  They  don't  lock 
up  a  man  for  doing  his  duty." 

Marr  smiled,  and  Stirling  studied  him.  The  little 
skipper  had  come  into  the  cabin  for  some  reason 
other  than  the  one  he  had  stated;  he  was  far  too 
genial  and  condescending. 

"What  do  you  want  with  me?"  the  Pilot  inquired. 


THE  MOVING  SHADOWS  161 

"Out  with  it  and  then  leave.  I'll  trouble  you  to 
allow  me  this  small  space  for  myself.  It's  not  much 
to  ask." 

"  I  want  your  good  will,  Stirling.  The  fact  of 
the  matter  is  this— 

Stirling  saw  the  smile  vanish  from  the  skipper's 
lips,  and  the  face  which  peered  out  from  the  shadow 
of  the  bunk  was  not  nearly  so  assured. 

"The  fact  is  this,"  repeated  Marr:  "there's  a  per- 
son aboard  who  is  interested  in  you.  I  have  made  the 
argument  that  you  will  join  us  sooner  or  later.  I  am 
going  to  make  it  to  your  interest  to  join  us." 

"Who  do  you  mean?" 

"That  I  can't  say  now!  This  person,  however, 
believes  that  you  will  be  very  dangerous  to  my  in- 
terests in  the  future.  In  other  words,  you  are  stand- 
ing out  for  the  foolish  laws  of  the  sea.  If  you  persist 
in  this  stand,  there  can  be  only  one  finish  to  you." 

"What  finish  is  that?" 

"You'll  either  be  marooned  on  a  barren  island  or 
tapped  on  the  head  and  dropped  overside.  You 
can't  expect  to  squeal  on  us." 

"How  about  Eagan?" 

"He  saw  and  guessed  too  much,  but  he  will  not 
see  what  is  coming.  I  have  a  plan  to  avoid  the  Bear 
and  the  other  cutters.  It  will  take  us  to  strange 
seas  and  glorious  coasts.  We  have  seal  pelts  enough 
to  make  every  man  aboard  rich;  we  can  get  more  at 
Disko  and  Copper  Island.  All  hands  shall  share 
alike,  and  spread  to  the  four  winds." 


162  THE  ICE  PILOT 

Stirling  saw  the  drift  of  the  little  skipper's  argu- 
ment. He  was  offering  a  bribe  for  silence  and 
cooperation.  "  I'll  never  change  my  views,"  he  said, 
stoutly.  "You  can't  get  away  with  that  raid  or  the 
pelts.  Right  will  beat  you.  Public  opinion  is  the 
strongest  force  I  know.  You  have  been  moving  con- 
trary to  it." 

Marr  rose  from  the  bunk  and  glanced  at  the  door, 
outside  of  which  the  sentry  was  pacing  energetically 
back  and  forth.  "You're  doomed,"  whispered  the 
skipper.  "  I  gave  you  a  chance.  This  persorhcan- 
not  help  you.  You'd  better  consider  the  matter 
carefully." 

The  captain's  tone  had  changed;  he  was  far  too 
sure  of  himself  to  suit  Stirling.  It  was  possible  that 
he  would  not  be  allowed  to  see  the  dawn. 

"Who  is  this  person  who  is  interested  in  me?" 
asked  Stirling  with  candour.  "Whitehouse?" 

"No;  not  the  mate.  You  perhaps  think  he  is  your 
friend,  but  he  is  with  me  to  the  finish  of  this  passage. 
The  rest  of  the  crew  are  with  me.  None  of  them 
wants  a  squealer  somewhere  ashore  where  he  can 
harm  us.  They're  all  for  sewing  you  in  a  sack  and 
dropping  you  overboard." 

Had  the  skipper  snapped  out  his  threats  or  other- 
wise acted  in  a  bullying  manner,  Stirling  would  have 
felt  less  concern,  but  there  was  that  in  the  icy  tones 
and  matter-of-fact  statements  which  chilled  red  blood 
and  caused  a  presentiment  to  reach  and  grip  at  the 
heart. 


THE  MOVING  SHADOWS  163 

The  two  men  stood  in  silence,  then  slowly  turned 
and  stared  at  each  other.  Marr's  eyes  were  the 
first  to  drop.  He  raised  them  again  with  an  effort. 
"  I  hate  to  finish  you  off,"  he  said,  without  moving 
his  lips,  "but  it's  got  to  be  done.  I've  posted  a 
second  sentry  on  the  poop.  Both  have  orders  to 
shoot  you  down  if  you  try  to  escape." 

"Who  is  the  person?"  repeated  Stirling,  like  a 
child  with  but  one  lesson. 

Marr  glided  toward  the  door  and  stood  in  the  open- 
ing. 

"Who  is  the  person?" 

The  little  skipper  leaned  forward  and  hissed  his 
words  as  he  said:  "You'll  never  see  her!  She  wants 
me  to  spare  you.  I  can't  do  it  and  live  on  this  earth. 
You  know  too  much!" 

The  door  closed  with  a  click.     Marr  was  gone. 

Stirling's  brain  grew  numb,  and  as  the  hot  blood 
rushed  to  his  cheeks,  he  raised  his  hand  and  pressed 
his  fingers  against  his  throbbing  temples.  He  stared 
at  the  door  with  every  muscle  tense  and  eager.  It 
would  be  possible  to  break  through  to  the  alleyway. 
There,  however,  he  would  meet  with  the  Kanaka 
sentry,  and  the  native  was  far  too  stolid  to  be  moved 
by  a  sudden  rush. 

The  ship  rocked  slightly  with  the  movement  of 
the  inner  waves  which  had  risen  over  the  early  hours 
of  the  night.  A  murmur  came  to  Stirling's  ears,  and 
he  crossed  the  cabin,  pressing  his  face  against  the 
brass  rim  of  the  porthole.  A  rocky  wall,  seamed 


164  THE  ICE  PILOT 

here  and  there  with  dark  fissures,  reared  a  barrier, 
while  the  Pole  Star  swung  at  her  anchor  chain  with 
her  stern  toward  the  opening  to  the  gulf. 

Stirling  heard  the  pacing  of  the  sentry  on  deck, 
and  above  the  sound  of  his  sliding  foot  he  sensed 
the  voices  of  men  aft  of  the  canvas  barrier.  Marr 
and  the  mate  were  in  whispered  consultation. 

Whitehouse  allowed  his  voice  to  rise  above  its 
ordinary  pitch.  He  was  insisting  upon  some  matter 
which  was  of  vital  importance  to  him,  and  it  concerned 
making  away  with  the  only  spy  in  their  midst.  Marr's 
answer  was  unheard  by  Stirling,  but  it  quieted  the 
mate  as  if  a  hand  had  smoothed  out  a  difficulty  with 
clever,  cunning  fingers.  Marr  was  doubly  danger- 
ous. He  held  close  control  of  his  brain  and  tongue. 

Stirling  paced  back  and  forth  within  the  narrow 
confines  of  his  cabin.  He  had  measured  the  port- 
hole with  the  span  of  his  hand,  and  knew  it  was  far 
too  small  for  escape.  It  could  not  well  be  enlarged 
by  any  tool  in  his  possession.  He  turned  toward  the 
door  as  a  last  resort.  Its  stout  panels  and  heavy 
oaken  planks  called  for  super  efforts,  but  they  could 
be  cut,  providing  the  sentry  dropped  off  into  sleep. 
Stirling  waited  and  listened  for  this  to  happen. 

Midnight  and  eight  bells  found  him  crouched  with 
his  ear  close  to  the  lower  starboard  panel.  The 
strength  to  right  a  wrong  and  fight  to  the  bitter  end 
had  crept  over  him.  He  was  a  match  for  Marr  and 
half  of  the  others  of  the  crew.  He  feared  no  five 
men  aboard  the  ship  if  the  fight  were  to  be  with  fists. 


THE  MOVING  SHADOWS  165 

A  clean  life  and  steady  purpose  had  often  ac- 
complished wonders.  He  reviewed  the  entire  situa- 
tion, and  summed  it  up  in  a  slow,  firm  way.  Marr 
and  the  mate  and  the  others  of  the  crew  had  taken  a 
lesson  from  Eagan.  They  were  in  the  poaching 
matter  far  too  deeply  to  back  out,  since  the  spoil  was 
'tween  decks,  and  was  also  waiting  on  the  Copper 
Islands. 

"  Better  snatch  a  delusion  from  a  woman,"  said 
Stirling,  grimly,  "than  deny  a  Bering  Sea  crew  the 
right  to  poach." 

He  thought  of  Marr's  parting  words,  the  lack  of 
venom  in  which  showed  that  the  end  would  come 
swiftly  and  after  deliberate  preparations.  His  one 
hope  was  the  woman  who  had  pleaded  for  his  life. 
She  had  to  be  reckoned  with — perhaps  she  was  re- 
sourceful. Her  eyes  were  wide  ones  and  undying 
in  their  intensity. 

Stirling  moved  toward  the  wall  and  reached  for 
the  electric  light,  then  dropped  his  hand  without 
turning  it  on.  He  found  the  bunk,  searched  under 
the  seaweed  mattress,  and  the  cold  thrill  of  the  tiny 
revolver  nerved  him  as  he  held  it  in  the  palm  of  his 
right  hand.  After  all,  he  thought,  there  was  a 
man's  life  or  two  in  the  silver-plated  barrel.  A  bold 
rush  when  the  door  was  opened,  a  stream  of  lead,  and 
the  open  deck  might  offer  possibilities. 

The  night  was  dark.  There  was  one  fissure  leading 
up  from  the  shelving  beach  to  the  higher  tableland. 
If  he  reached  this  he  would  be  free.  Siberia  and 


1 66  THE  ICE  PILOT 

a  wide  sky  was  the  vaulting  place  for  a  possible 
revenge. 

He  stepped  toward  the  porthole  and  pressed  his 
forehead  against  the  cold  metal  rim,  his  eyes  slowly 
making  out  the  details  of  the  harbour  and  the  shore. 
They  grew  keen  and  penetrating. 

A  gushing  and  tossing  stream  of  creamy  water 
issued  from  the  face  of  the  rock.  It  silvered  down 
and  flattened  out  where  the  waves  lapped  up  a  shelv- 
ing shore.  The  roar  of  this  waterfall  was  faint  and 
musical,  like  a  melody  set  in  a  dream. 

Stirling  remained  at  the  porthole,  looking  toward 
the  shore.  His  eyes  grew  intent,  and  now  he  made 
out  details  which  had  at  first  been  overlooked.  Crags 
and  moss  were  apparent;  a  shelf  grew  from  a  dark 
line  to  a  possible  passageway  for  an  agile  man.  He 
traced  the  course  of  this  and  saw  that  it  vanished 
over  the  extreme  edge  of  the  highest  cliff  where  the 
dark  stone  stood  out  against  the  star-scattered  sky. 

"  I  can  climb  that,"  he  said  with  conviction.  "That 
is  a  road  to  Siberia." 

He  listened  as  a  sound  floated  from  the  quarter- 
deck. Steps  were  directly  over  him,  and  a  shadow 
fell  along  the  surface  of  the  heaving  waters,  a  shadow 
slight  and  elfin. 

Dangling  before  his  startled  eyes,  and  partly 
blotting  out  the  view  of  the  open  night,  there  had 
appeared  an  object  which  was  fastened  on  the  end 
of  a  loose  line. 

As  it  swung  back  and  forth  a  foot  scraped  close  to 


THE  MOVING  SHADOWS  167 

the  ship's  rail,  and  a  low  voice  called  with  musical 
timbre. 

Stirling  reached  out  through  the  porthole  and 
drew  in  the  line.  He  untied  the  packet,  which  was 
knotted  by  a  square  knot,  and  waited.  The  line 
was  drawn  upward;  a  belaying  pin  creaked  in  the 
pinrail;  the  steps  sounded  again.  Then  they  seemed 
to  be  aft. 

Backing  from  the  ship's  skin,  and  feeling  behind 
with  his  left  hand,  Stirling  found  the  edge  of  the  bunk 
and  sat  down  with  heavy  thoughts.  He  toyed 
with  the  packet  and  weighed  it  by  moving  his  right 
hand  up  and  down  in  the  gloom. 

Unbinding  it  slowly,  he  scented  for  the  first  time 
the  aroma  of  heliotrope.  Once  before  he  had  detected 
that  perfume.  That  was  when  the  girl  had  appeared 
at  the  galley  porthole  and  handed  in  the  revolver. 

He  removed  a  lace  handkerchief,  thrust  it  into  his 
shirt  pocket,  and  smiled  at  the  practical  present 
which  had  been  lowered  from  the  poop.  The  offering 
was  to  the  point  and  suggestive.  He  counted  twenty- 
five  tiny  cartridges  which  most  certainly  were  de- 
signed for  the  little  silver-plated  revolver. 

"  I  like  her,"  he  said,  thrusting  the  bullets  within 
his  shirt.  "She's  true  blue  and  thinks  of  the  right 
things.  Likewise,  she's  a  daughter  of  the  sea!" 

He  rose  and  moved  slowly  toward  the  porthole. 
The  outside  now  seemed  nearer,  for  some  reason; 
the  friend  on  deck  had  warmed  his  blood.  She  was 
standing  by  in  case  of  a  blow. 


1 68  THE  ICE  PILOT 

The  ship's  bell  was  struck  with  a  muffled  mar- 
linespike  as  Stirling  stood  in  patient  idleness.  He 
counted  the  strokes,  and  heard  a  far  closing  of  a 
hatch,  sign  that  the  anchor  watch  had  changed.  The 
sentry  in  the  alleyway  spoke  to  another  who  came  to 
take  his  place.  The  new  arrival  tested  the  door  and 
otherwise  acted  as  if  he  would  remain  awake  over  the 
time  allotted  to  his  duties. 

Suddenly,  and  in  an  unwarned  manner,  Stirling 
grew  aware  that  ashore  a  shadow  moved  along  the 
higher  shelf  of  the  cliff.  This  shadow  was  followed 
by  a  second  and  then  a  third.  Men  in  ragged  guise 
were  descending  the  trail  that  led  from  the  Siberian 
tableland  to  the  land-locked  harbour  wherein  lay  the 
Pole  Star, 

The  descending  forms  disappeared,  as  they  en- 
tered a  chasm  in  the  rocky  wall.  They  came  into 
view  again  and  stood  upon  a  shelf  which  was  directly 
over  the  taper  jib  boom  of  the  ship.  They  pointed 
with  swaying  arms,  first  at  the  Pole  Star,  and  then 
toward  the  open  Gulf  of  Anadir.  It  was  evident 
to  Stirling  that  they  never  had  been  in  the  same 
locality  before. 

He  drew  upon  his  imagination  as  he  tried  to 
fathom  the  reason  for  the  ragged  visitors.  They 
were  not  natives  or  Eskimos.  Their  matted  hair  and 
bold,  staring  eyes  betokened  Russians. 

The  leading  figure  issued  a  silent  order  by  point- 
ing upward,  whereupon  a  man  climbed  the  trail, 
disappeared  in  the  chasm,  and  reappeared  upon  the 


THE  MOVING  SHADOWS  169 

shelf  which  marked  the  tableland.  He  vanished 
against  the  velvet  of  the  sky,  and  a  slow  minute 
passed.  There  came  then  a  score  of  heads  over  the 
edge,  and  a  blurred  mass  of  outcasts  started  down 
the  pathway  with  the  messenger  leading  them. 

Stirling  had  seen  enough  to  realize  that  the  ship 
was  in  danger.  Out  of  the  barren  land  of  Siberia 
figures  had  crept  in  an  endeavour  to  reach  the  sea. 
They  bore  all  the  evidence  of  a  terrible  journey,  and 
were  in  numbers  sufficient  to  capture  the  ship. 

No  sound  came  from  the  deck  of  the  poacher;  the 
sentry  at  the  door  was  leaning  against  the  barrel  of 
his  rifle;  the  anchor  watch  slept  profoundly.  Fair 
game  lay  in  the  cove,  and  the  hour  was  close  when  its 
enemies  would  strike. 

"Let  them  come,"  said  Stirling.  "I'll  not  warn 
Marr.  He  brought  it  on  himself." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THROUGH   THE    PORTHOLE 

IN  A  maze  of  doubt  and  resolution  Stirling  stared 
out  over  the  dark  harbour  and  saw  that  the  band 
of  outcasts  had  reached  the  shelving  beach  and 
were  making  preparations  to  swim  to  the  ship. 

He  turned  away  and  glanced  toward  the  locked  door. 
The  sentry  stirred  restlessly;  his  gun's  butt  was  lifted 
and  dropped  to  the  deck.  A  hacking  cough  sounded. 

Steps  glided  across  the  poop  from  the  forward  rail 
to  the  cabin  companion;  a  slide  shot  back;  the 
sentry  called  and  was  answered.  Then  a  key  clicked 
in  the  lock  of  the  door,  and  Marr  stood  in  the  gloom. 
Back  of  the  little  captain  loomed  two  of  the  galley 
crowd.  There  was  no  mercy  in  their  hard,  level 
glances. 

"Come  on,  Stirling,"  said  the  captain.  "Step 
out  and  come  with  us.  You're  on  trial.  Search 
him,  men." 

Stirling  backed  step  by  step  to  the  bunk,  and  se- 
cured the  tiny  revolver  firmly  in  his  palm.  His  broad 
thumb  pressed  through  the  trigger  guard,  and  the 
feel  of  the  cold  metal  decided  him.  He  folded  his 
arms,  thrust  the  gun  through  to  his  skin,  and  allowed 
it  to  drop  down. 

170 


THROUGH  THE  PORTHOLE     171 

The  search,  as  Marr  switched  on  the  electric  light, 
was  done  in  haste.  A  Kanaka  harpooner  ran 
clumsy  hands  over  Stirling's  pockets.  He  turned 
and  shook  his  head. 

"Me  find  nothing." 

"Bring  him  to  the  galley!"  Marr  ordered. 
"Watch  him,  too." 

The  sentry  brought  up  the  rear.  Stirling  breathed 
with  deep  intakes  of  the  keen  air  as  he  crossed  the 
quarter-deck  and  descended  the  lee-poop  ladder.  He 
entered  the  galley  cabin  with  his  head  thrown  back 
and  his  eyes  blazing. 

Whitehouse  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table,  and  about 
the  mate  was  gathered  all  of  the  afterguard  and  three 
of  the  crew.  They  had  been  drinking  from  square 
faces  of  gin.  The  empty  bottles  and  glasses  littered 
the  sea  racks;  sour  limes  were  scattered  about. 

The  two  engineers  sat  in  one  corner  of  the  cabin 
with  their  feet  sprawled  along  the  deck  and  their 
eyes  bleared  and  baleful.  They  had  been  loudest 
in  calling  for  the  death  of  Stirling,  since  the  seal 
pelts  within  the  forehold  of  the  Pole  Star  constituted 
a  king's  ransom.  Each  man's  share  would  be  well 
up  in  the  thousands.  They  saw  no  reason  for  tak- 
ing the  slightest  chances. 

Baldwin  leered  at  the  Ice  Pilot  and  nudged  his 
companion.  "Shootin'  is  too  good,"  Baldwin  said. 
"I'd  like  to  put  the  squealer  in  a  fire  box  and  turn 
on  forced  draft — if  we  had  forced  draft." 

Stirling  faced  the  two  men  with  composure.     The 


172  THE  ICE  PILOT 

possession  of  the  little  revolver,  the  knowledge  that 
a  hungry,  ragged  horde  was  even  then  approaching 
the  ship,  held  him  confident.  Much  might  happen 
within  the  space  of  minutes.  The  drunken  after- 
guard would  be  no  match  for  the  outcasts. 

Marr  cleared  his  throat,  moved  to  the  door,  and, 
closing  it,  turned  with  sudden  fire  and  anger.  "We've 
been  talking  all  of  an  hour,"  he  said,  bitterly.  "Time's 
up!  It'll  be  daybreak  before  we  do  anything. 
We're  all  together  in  this.  What  do  you  say  we  take 
a  vote  and  decide.  There's  just  two  things  to  do  to 
him — cast  him  ashore,  or  drop  him  overboard." 

"And  if  you  drop  that  lad,"  said  Whitehouse, 
,"see  that  there  is  a  blym  big  anchor  spliced  to  'is 
legs.  'E's  a  water  dog,  besides  being  a  hard  hitter. 
'E's  dangerous — 'e  his!" 

"Him  good  man — dead!" 

Stirling  turned  and  faced  a  Kanaka  harpooner. 
"What  have  I  ever  done  to  you?"  he  asked.  "You 
know  me.  I've  always  treated  you  boys  right. 
Remember  the  Beluga  and  the  Karluk  and  the  Nor- 
wbale?  You  forget  easy.  You've  been  filled  with 
gin,  and  you  are  not  yourself." 

"Me  like  hear  'em  talk,"  the  Kanaka  said,  with  a 
sheepish  grin. 

Marr  saw  the  drift  of  affairs  and  assumed  swift 
control.  Stirling  was  well  thought  of  among  the 
natives  of  the  Siberian  shore  and  the  islands  of  the 
Pacific.  The  simple-minded  Kanakas  could  be  easily 
influenced. 


THROUGH  THE  PORTHOLE     173 

"Have  done!"  the  little  skipper  exclaimed.  "If 
you're  all  for  marooning  him,  I  'm  satisfied.  But— 

The  pause  was  doubly  suggestive.  Marr  glanced 
at  the  two  engineers  and  Whitehouse.  "You  know 
the  consequences,"  Marr  said.  "This  fellow  will 
bob  up  some  day  with  all  our  names  and  with  two  or 
three  revenue  men  behind  him.  There's  no  getting 
away  from  that  fact.  It  may  be  in  Shanghai  and  it 
may  be  in  Frisco." 

"Or  Liverpool,"  Whitehouse  suggested.  "I'm 
going  to  Liverpool  and  Birkenhead  when  I  get  the 
bloomin'  pile  from  the  pelties.  What's  to  prevent 
'im  bobbin'  hup  there?" 

"Nothing!"  said  Marr. 

"Then  let's  take  a  deuced  vote.  I  'ate's  to  do  hit, 
but  I  votes  for  walkin'  the  plank." 

"Same  here,"  said  the  two  engineers  in  one  voice. 

"You,  Crinko?" 

The  Kanaka's  face  softened  as  he  leered  at  Marr, 
and  the  bronze  of  his  sea-beaten  features  took  on  a 
yellowish  tinge.  He  turned  and  smiled  openly 
toward  Stirling,  who  stood  with  folded  arms  and  the 
weight  of  his  body  resting  on  the  balls  of  his  feet. 

"Me  like  'em,"  the  native  said.  "Me  no  vote. 
He  good  man — sometimes." 

Marr  caught  the  note  in  the  simple  tones  and 
frowned.  He  felt  himself  slipping.  There  were  two 
more  Kanakas  in  the  cabin  who  would  follow  the 
big  harpooner;  the  three  together  might  prove 
troublesome. 


174  THE  ICE  PILOT 

"You're  out!"  Marr  snapped.  "Now  the  next. 
How  do  you  vote,  Slim?" 

Slim  was  the  leader  of  the  stokehold  and  engine- 
room  crew,  which  was  entirely  under  the  influence  of 
the  two  engineers.  Marr  smiled  as  six  cinder  rats 
and  oilers  stood  up  from  the  seats  they  had  taken 
about  the  table  and  voted  for  Stirling's  death.  Each 
man  had  reached  for  a  drink  of  gin  as  his  name  was 
called. 

"That  almost  settles  it,"  whispered  Whitehouse, 
drunkenly.  "Old  horse,  you're  gone.  Hit's  a  'ard, 
'ard  thing  to  do  but  we " 

" But  you're  not  going  to  do  it!"  broke  in  Stirling, 
backing  toward  the  door  and  crouching  with  his 
hand  toward  his  right  shoe.  "You're  only  drunk 
and  full  of  false  courage!" 

The  blaze  that  sprang  from  Stirling's  eyes  sim- 
mered and  darted  across  the  smoke-filled  room. 
Each  man  felt  the  sudden  power  that  flashed  at 
him ;  each  leaned  away  for  a  second. 

"Get  back!" 

Stirling  crouched  lower  and  shelved  forward  his 
massive  shoulders.  The  bulk  of  him  seemed  to  fill 
the  room.  He  was  more  than  a  fighting  match  for 
the  entire  crew.  They  knew  it  with  dawning  intui- 
tion. 

Marr  slyly  placed  a  cool  hand  within  the  inner 
pocket  of  his  pea-jacket,  and  was  drawing  a  gun 
when  Stirling  leaped  the  distance,  hooked  his  right 
elbow,  and  uppercut  with  vicious  force.  The  blow 


THROUGH  THE  PORTHOLE  175 

would  have  lifted  the  cabin  deck.  It  hurled  Marr 
over  the  table,  and  laid  him  across  the  planks  where 
he  dropped  unconscious. 

"Now  the  next!"  shouted  Stirling,  backing  away 
and  lowering  his  fists  to  his  knees.  "The  next! 
Come  on!" 

Baldwin,  the  engineer,  watched  the  Ice  Pilot's 
eyes,  and  in  them  he  saw  the  dying  fire  of  rage  turn  to 
cool  calculation.  It  was  like  gazing  at  horizon-down 
ice,  as  the  steely  glint  changed  to  cold  gray.  But  the 
glance  was  over  the  heads  of  the  seamen  who  leaned 
upon  the  table.  It  was  toward  on  open  porthole. 

Some  intuition,  stronger  than  the  desire  to  mur- 
der, swept  the  crew.  They  turned  as  one  man  and 
followed  Stirling's  steady  gaze.  They  dropped 
their  chins  and  stared  out  through  the  porthole. 

"By  the  jumpin'  bowheads!"  Whitehouse 
screamed.  "By  Heaven,  mates.  Look!  Look!" 

Framed  by  the  dull  brass  was  the  face  of  a  whisk- 
ered Russian  whose  small  eyes  surveyed  the  cabin 
greedily.  A  crash  sounded  at  the  door,  shouts  rolled 
through  the  iron  of  the  ship,  and  a  grim  struggle  was 
begun  at  once.  The  Pole  Star  had  been  captured 
by  revolutionists. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

ALONE    IN   THE   CABIN 

THE  invaders,  led  by  the  same  whiskered  Rus- 
sian  who  had  peered  through  the  porthole, 
swept  around  the  deck  and  crashed  through 
the  door  leading  to  the  galley  cabin. 

It  was  a  mad  wave  of  victory  for  them.  They 
brought  surprise  and  determination  as  their  allies, 
and  were  in  great  numbers.  Already  they  had 
mopped  up  the  anchor  watch  and  some  of  the  crew 
who  had  climbed  from  the  forecastle. 

Stirling,  rooted  to  the  spot  where  he  had  faced 
his  accusers,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  felt  the  grip 
of  fear.  He  saw  Whitehouse  felled  with  a  descend- 
ing swing  of  a  giant  club,  and  the  second  engineer 
staggered  toward  the  table  with  a  knife  through  his 
breast. 

A  Kanaka  harpooner,  whose  gin-dulled  brain  re- 
fused to  act,  dashed  into  the  midst  of  the  inpouring 
horde  and  went  down,  the  centre  of  a  wave  of  in- 
furiated invaders.  One  hooked-nose  boat  steerer, 
noted  for  his  mildness  of  manner,  became  crazed, 
snatched  a  harpoon  from  the  wall  of  the  cabin,  and 
drove  it  through  a  Russian's  neck.  He,  too,  was 
downed  and  then  killed  with  heavy  clubs. 

176 


ALONE  IN  THE  CABIN  177 

This  resistance  stemmed  the  wave  of  Russians  for 
a  moment.  Marr  shouted  shrilly.  He  was  an- 
swered by  a  Russian,  who  shouted  instruction  from 
the  doorway.  Stones  were  hurled  through  the 
length  of  the  cabin;  capstan  bars  were  raised;  the 
invaders  faced  the  survivors,  and  prepared  to  charge 
Stirling  and  the  little  skipper  who  had  found  com- 
mon cause  in  resistance. 

Mechanically,  Stirling  reached  downward  and 
grasped  the  tiny  revolver,  though  afterward  he  had 
no  recollection  of  the  action.  The  gun  steadied  his 
nerves  as  he  glanced  at  it,  and  then  into  the  peering 
faces  gathered  about  the  doorway  and  the  after  end 
of  the  cabin. 

He  fired  with  coolness,  and  six  jets  of  flame  flashed 
across  the  table  and  seared  the  faces  before  him. 
Russians  went  down  as  if  poleaxed,  others  shouted  in 
pain,  and  two  backed  away  covering  their  faces  with 
their  arms. 

Stirling  reloaded  the  revolver  with  clumsy  fingers. 
The  action  was  new  to  him;  the  time  was  short.  He 
wondered  as  he  waited  for  coolness  to  return  how  it 
happened  that  the  cartridges  were  in  his  breast, 
since  the  Kanaka  had  searched  him  in  the  after  cabin. 
They  had  been  overlooked. 

Marr  coughed  in  the  acrid  mist  and  shouted  out 
through  a  porthole.  He  was  answered  by  a  Russian 
imprecation;  a  face  peered  in  and  a  whale  lance 
darted  through  the  opening.  It  missed  the  skipper 
by  inches. 


ITS  THE  ICE  PILOT 

He  backed  and  touched  Stirling's  arm.  "Kill 
them!"  he  cried.  "  Kill  them,  Stirling!" 

The  shout  was  a  signal  to  the  dock  rats  and  sea 
scum  who  had  crouched  in  the  gloom  of  the  cabin. 
They  advanced  with  heads  lowered  and  rude  weap- 
ons snatched  from  the  deck.  One  hurled  a  gin 
bottle  into  the  face  of  a  Russian  who  stood  half  in 
and  half  out  of  the  door.  This  sign  of  defiance 
brought  the  wrath  of  the  horde  down  upon  the 
defenders.  A  jagged  rock  hurtled  through  the  port- 
hole and  crashed  against  the  electric  dome  in  the 
ceiling.  The  falling  glass  tinkled  upon  the  table, 
and  darkness  blotted  out  Stirling's  view  of  what 
followed.  It  was  a  press  of  mad  men  who  would 
not  be  denied,  and  he  fired  without  knowing  whether 
he  struck  Russians  or  the  remnant  of  the  Pole  Star's 
crew. 

He  stepped  back  and  felt  about  with  his  left  hand. 
His  fingers  touched  a  wall,  and  following  this  he 
came  to  the  end  of  a  table  where  he  stumbled  over 
the  body  of  a  Kanaka.  Rising,  he  worked  forward 
and  found  the  knob  of  a  door  which  led  into  the 
cook's  kitchen.  This  door  was  locked,  and  he 
bunched  his  shoulders  for  a  crashing  blow. 

The  Russians  had  advanced  in  the  gloom  of  the 
shambles  and  were  feeling  about  for  Marr  and  the 
others  of  the  crew  who  had  escaped  their  onslaught. 
Now  and  then  a  loud  cry  marked  a  victim.  A  Rus- 
sian thrust  inward  the  smoking  end  of  a  torch  made 
out  of  rope  yarn.  It  flared  and  died  to  a  glow. 


ALONE  IN  THE  CABIN  179 

Stirling  stepped  away  from  the  door,  lowered  his 
shoulder,  and  lunged  forward  with  all  the  weight 
of  his  well-nourished  body  behind  the  blow.  He 
rebounded,  crouched,  lunged  for  a  second  time,  and 
the  door  splintered  on  the  port  side  and  tore  loose 
from  its  chamfer. 

Hurtling  through  to  the  kitchen  and  stumbling 
over  an  assortment  of  clanging  pans,  Stirling  found 
the  second  door  which  led  to  the  deck.  This,  also, 
was  locked.  He  crashed  his  foot  against  a  lower 
panel,  and  the  wood  splintered,  making  an  opening 
sufficient  to  pass  through.  He  crawled  out  like  a 
determined  bear  and  stood  erect,  his  great  chest 
rising  and  falling  as  he  gulped  the  air  of  the 
night. 

Chaos  ruled  the  after  part  of  the  ship,  and  heavy 
blows  sounded  forward  where  the  invaders  were  mop- 
ping out  the  forecastle.  Bodies  were  hurtled  overside, 
the  last  cries  of  doomed  men  echoing  and  reechoing 
among  the  rocks  of  the  shore  and  awakening  the  sea 
birds  nested  there. 

A  deep  silence  followed  the  slaying  of  the  crew. 
Stirling  crouched  in  the  shelter  of  the  galley  house 
where  the  cook's  pipe  was  thrust  through  the  wall, 
then  turned  his  eyes  and  stared  aft. 

The  thought  had  come  to  him  that  the  girl  was 
alone  in  the  cabin.  Marr  had  been  seen  last  fighting 
Russians  who  had  invaded  the  galley  room,  and  a 
show  of  resistance  was  still  there.  The  lurking 
forms  of  men  were  about  the  door,  but  the  waist  of 


i8o  THE  ICE  PILOT 

the  ship  seemed  filled  with  men  who  had  climbed 
aboard  from  out  of  the  sea.  These  men  were  waiting 
for  some  signal. 

It  came  with  startling  suddenness.  Marr,  the 
first  engineer,  and  two  seamen  burst  through  the 
doorway,  shouting  defiance,  and  plunged  straight 
for  the  poop  and  the  shelter  of  the  after  cabins.  One 
seaman  and  engineer  were  felled  and  dragged  to 
death.  Marr  and  the  second  seaman  gained  the 
poop  steps,  glanced  forward,  and  vanished  in  the 
direction  of  the  cabin  companion. 

This  sally  filled  the  ship  with  wild  imprecations  and 
cries,  and  Stirling  was  swirled  in  a  maze  of  doubt. 
The  quarter-deck  was  shadowed  with  climbing 
Russians;  the  forepeak  and  waist  rocked  with  their 
feet  as  they  searched  about  for  survivors. 

A  thin  tongue  of  flame  from  an  after  porthole 
burned  through  the  night.  A  rapid  hail  of  lead  from 
a  rifle  spattered  along  the  deck  and  splintered  the 
woodwork.  Marr  had  reached  the  ship's  arsenal  and 
was  firing  from  the  break  of  the  poop  into  the  Russian 
horde.  The  situation  had  changed  during  the  period 
of  seconds. 

Before  he  had  time  to  gauge  the  battle,  Stirling 
heard  the  rush  of  men  who  were  seeking  safety  be- 
hind the  galley  house  and  within  the  gloom  of  the 
whaleboats  on  the  port  side.  He  raised  his  revolver 
and  emptied  it  along  the  deck.  One  shot  went  home  ; 
the  others  missed.  He  pocketed  the  weapon,  faced 
about,  and  darted  for  the  lee  shrouds  which  led  up 


ALONE  IN  THE  CABIN  181 

to  the  crow's-nest.  He  then  mounted  the  rail  and 
climbed  by  the  strength  which  was  in  his  arms. 

The  vanguard  of  Russians  leaped  for  his  legs,  but 
he  drew  himself  up  and  worked  toward  the  crow's- 
nest  with  beating  heart.  He  reached  the  Jacob's 
ladder  and  went  out  instead  of  going  through  the 
lubber's  hole.  Here  he  turned  and  stared  down- 
ward ;  the  deck  seemed  far  away ;  a  whizzing  belaying 
pin  missed  his  head  by  many  feet.  He  chuckled  and 
touched  his  face  with  his  hand.  Blood  was  there 
from  some  unnoticed  wound. 

Whiskered  faces  showed  through  the  gloom,  and 
Stirling  chuckled  for  a  second  time  and  climbed 
swiftly  to  the  crow's-nest.  Dropping  inside,  he 
pressed  his  chin  to  the  edge  of  the  nest  and  glanced 
toward  the  rocky  wall  which  loomed  over  the  ship. 
Other  Russians  were  descending  the  trail  that  led 
to  the  shelving  beach,  and  he  watched  a  score  more 
who  were  swimming  through  the  dark  waters  of  the 
harbour. 

Suddenly  all  the  fight  went  out  of  him,  as  water 
leaves  a  sponge.  The  odds  were  far  too  great— 
Marr  and  the  seaman  and  the  girl  comprised  the 
afterguard.  They  were  well  armed,  but  the  in- 
vaders were  in  such  number  as  to  indicate  the  exodus 
of  an  army.  They  either  had  worked  northward  by 
land  from  Vladivostok,  or,  concluded  Stirling,  they 
had  taken  ships  and  been  wrecked  on  the  coast. 
This  was  a  possibility,  considering  the  remote 
locality  of  the  Gulf  of  Anadir.  . 


1 82  THE  ICE  PILOT 

A  call  lifted  upward  from  the  dark  side;  Stirling 
turned  away  from  the  harbour  view  and  looked  down- 
ward. A  revolutionist  stood  by  the  square  outline 
of  the  after  hatch,  and  he  raised  his  arms. 

Five  Russians  were  climbing  the  starboard  shrouds, 
each  with  a  knife  in  hand.  Each  glared  down  at  the 
man  on  the  after  hatch  and  then  resumed  climbing. 

Stirling  leaned  farther  out,  steadied  his  revolver, 
sighted  it  in  the  half  light,  and  blazed  the  night  with 
a  cone  of  leaping  fire.  He  fired  for  a  second  time. 
One  Russian  let  go  his  knife,  spun  on  the  ratlines, 
and  dropped  like  a  plummet  to  the  deck  below.  The 
others  hurried  from  their  exposed  position  and 
crouched  under  the  Jacob's  ladder  where  a  jack 
offered  some  shelter.  Stirling  waited  for  an  open 
sight  at  these  two. 

The  man  near  the  hatch  shouted  an  order.  The 
two  invaders  grasped  lines  and  slid  to  the  deck.  They 
landed  clumsily  and  staggered  for  the  gloom  of  the 
whaleboats.  Stirling  replaced  his  revolver  in  his 
pocket  and  sank  back  into  the  crow's-nest.  The  at- 
tack had  steadied  his  nerves,  and  he  felt  secure  for 
some  time  to  come. 

Dawn  mantled  the  sky  above  the  dark  cliff's 
edge;  a  plume  of  flamingo  red  shot  to  the  zenith,  and 
the  sun  was  peering  over  the  Siberian  tableland.  It 
would  not  be  long  before  the  harbour  would  be  il- 
luminated sufficiently  to  reveal  the  state  of  chaos 
on  the  deck  of  the  Pole  Star. 

The  higher  peaks  of  the  mountains  grew  rosy  and 


ALONE  IN  THE  CABIN  183 

white.  The  light  came  on  and  down  with  pale 
shadowings,  revealing  the  surface  of  the  sea  in  ghastly 
detail.  Seamen  and  Russians  floated  about  like 
dead  seals. 

The  deck  was  a  shambles  where  Marr's  lead  had 
scattered  the  Russian  horde.  A  hastily  erected 
barricade  at  the  after  hatch  prevented  the  little 
skipper  from  sweeping  the  entire  deck.  Behind 
this  barricade  the  Russians  crouched,  and  forward 
by  the  forecastle  they  swarmed  in  great  numbers,  hav- 
ing broken  into  the  stores. 

The  men  were  crunching  on  ship's  biscuits  and 
drinking  from  square  faces  of  gin. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

OVER  THE    STERN 

FROM  his  lofty  perch  Stirling  tried  to  count 
the  number  of  revolutionists,  and  had  reached 
two  hundred  and  ten  before  he  stopped  count- 
ing. Others  were  ashore.  A  whaleboat  had  been 
lowered  and  paddled  under  the  shelter  of  the  ship 
to  the  beach.  It  returned  with  crude  weapons  and 
a  ragged  crew  who  could  not  swim,  and  they  added 
their  shouting  to  the  turmoil  as  they  fell  upon  the 
ship's  stores  and  gin. 

"Nice  party,"  said  Stirling.  "I  wonder  how  I'll 
get  out  of  this." 

His  thoughts  swung  to  the  afterguard,  a  seaman 
of  the  lowest  coast  type.  Stirling  remembered  him 
as  a  Frisco  dock  rat  called  "Slim."  He  had  been 
too  lazy  to  work — too  handy  with  a  knife,  yet  he 
alone  of  the  crew  had  survived. 

This  seaman  appeared  suddenly  and  thrust  his 
shoulders  above  the  companion.  Stirling  leaned  for- 
ward and  watched  him.  There  was  that  in  his  leer 
which  spoke  of  deep  drinking  and  a  desire  for  re- 
venge. He  poised  himself  a  moment,  ducked  as  he 
sighted  the  revolutionists,  then  appeared  with  a 
brass  bomb  gun.  It  was  of  the  type  whalers  use 

184 


OVER  THE  STERN  185 

in  finishing  a  whale,  and  was  capable  of  great 
execution. 

The  gun  went  up  to  the  seaman's  shoulder;  he 
squinted  along  the  barrel  and  pressed  the  trigger. 
The  bomb  hurtled  past  the  mainmast  and  exploded 
forward  of  the  galley  house  on  the  starboard  side 
of  the  ship,  where  three  refugees  were  crouched. 
They  seemed  to  spring  up  into  the  racking  air  and 
vanish.  The  ship  rocked  with  shouts  as  the  seaman 
loaded  the  gun  and  prepared  for  a  second  attempt. 

Stirling  realized  that  the  last  defenders  had  a 
weapon  in  a  million.  It  was  similar  to  the  rifle  gren- 
ades used  in  trench  warfare,  and  against  it  the  Rus- 
sians were  at  a  great  disadvantage.  They  could  not 
face  eight  ounces  of  tonite  exploded  in  their  midst. 

Marr  appeared  alongside  of  the  sailor,  and  he,  too, 
carried  a  bomb  gun.  The  shot  he  fired  exploded 
against  the  break  of  the  forepeak  and  missed  the 
open  forecastle  companion.  Its  explosion  racked 
the  morning  air  and  sent  showers  of  splinters  as  high 
aloft  as  the  crow's-nest. 

Stirling  watched  the  fight  which  followed.  The 
revolutionists  had  one  advantage:  their  number  was 
sufficient  to  overcome  any  resistance,  provided  they 
were  well  led.  They  seemed,  however,  to  lack  a 
leader. 

The  Russian  who  had  stood  by  the  after  hatch 
and  directed  operations  had  been  struck  by  a  splinter 
of  ash  from  a  whaleboat.  He  was  carried  below  to 
the  forecastle.  The  man  who  took  his  place  crouched 


1 86  THE  ICE  PILOT 

behind  the  mainmast  and  shouted  his  orders  in  a 
weak,  squeaking  voice. 

The  rush  came  at  last  and  in  straggling  infiltration. 
The  invaders  seeped  along  the  two  rails  and  out  from 
the  barricade,  then  swarmed  up  the  poop.  Marr 
fired  point-blank  and  dropped  down  the  cabin  com- 
panion as  a  stone  crashed  against  his  breast.  The 
seaman  stood  his  ground  and  swung  the  bomb  gun 
by  the  muzzle.  He  bowled  over  a  trio  of  Russians, 
drew  back,  and  then  glanced  downward. 

The  little  skipper,  pale  and  bleeding,  had  appeared 
for  a  moment,  and  motioned  that  he  was  going  to 
close  the  companion  slide.  The  seaman  swirled  the 
gun,  braced  himself,  and  drove  it  into  the  gathering 
knot  of  men  at  the  quarter-deck  canvas,  then  he 
turned  and  swiftly  dived  below.  The  companion 
hatch  shut  with  a  loud  click. 

Stirling  counted  his  cartridges  as  the  baffled  Rus- 
sians swarmed  over  the  poop.  He  could  hit  a  few 
of  them  with  careful  aiming,  but  he  held  his  fire. 
There  was  always  the  chance  that  he,  too,  would 
be  rushed.  A  squad  of  determined  men  could 
reach  the  crow's-nest  if  they  ignored  the  cost  to 
themselves. 

The  sun's  rays  brought  out  all  the  details  of  the 
night's  fight.  Unreal  and  ghastly  seemed  the  deck 
of  the  ship.  Stirling  rubbed  his  eyes  and  glanced 
downward,  to  where  the  revolutionists  had  gathered 
in  a  knot  forward  of  the  galley  house.  The  man 
who  had  stood  near  the  hatch  was  speaking  to  them; 


OVER  THE  STERN  187 

his  gestures  were  strained  and  dramatic.  He  pointed 
aloft. 

Faces  were  turned  upward  and  weapons  were 
raised,  but  no  man  started  for  the  rigging.  The 
determined  leader  called  for  volunteers.  He  seemed 
to  realize  that  the  crow's-nest  was  a  dangerous  point 
of  vantage  and  the  tiny  revolver  in  Stirling's  hand 
was  a  potent  argument.  The  Ice  Pilot  held  it  out 
and  took  aim.  The  leader  ducked  beneath  the  shel- 
ter of  a  splintered  whaleboat.  The  other  revolution- 
ists were  more  stolid;  they  stared  and  brandished 
their  weapons. 

An  hour  passed  with  the  invaders  combing  the 
ship  for  more  gin  and  stores.  Stirling  lay  back  and 
pressed  against  the  side  of  the  crow's-nest.  His 
eyes  closed,  but  he  opened  them  with  a  sudden  start. 
It  would  not  do  to  sleep  while  the  Russians  were 
alert;  any  minute  might  find  them  climbing  the 
rigging. 

Sounds  floated  upward  which  told  that  the  ship's 
captors  were  cleaning  up  the  deck  and  otherwise 
making  preparations  for  her  departure.  They  had 
nailed  down  the  companion  hatch  which  led  to  the 
after  cabins,  and  two  stood  guard  there  with  capstan 
bars.  Others  were  below  in  the  engine  room,  where 
the  clang  of  doors  sounded.  Scoops  grated  across 
the  aprons  in  the  stokehold,  and  shrill  calls  came  up 
the  ventilators. 

A  smudge  of  smoke  issued  from  the  funnel,  curled 
the  masts,  and  rose  straight  upward  in  the  Arctic  air. 


i88  THE  ICE  PILOT 

Stirling  coughed  and  stiffened  himself;  he  leaned 
over  the  edge  of  the  crow's-nest  and  watched  for 
developments.  It  was  evident  that  there  was  an 
engineer  or  two  among  the  Russians. 

The  leader  appeared  through  the  engine-room 
gratings  and  stood  by  the  handrail.  He  staggered 
slightly  from  the  effects  of  the  gin  he  had  drunk,  and 
he  turned  a  weak  chin  aloft  and  sneered.  His  eyes 
swung  downward  and  swept  the  harbour's  entrance 
where  it  closed  to  a  shelving  rock  about  which  the 
Pole  Star  would  have  to  be  steered  in  order  to  make 
for  open  sea. 

The  orders  he  gave  were  obeyed  in  listless  manner; 
some  of  the  Russians  openly  holding  back  and  con- 
sulting. Three  of  them  went  to  the  falls  of  the  star- 
board whaleboat  and  threw  the  lines  from  the  cleats. 
The  boat  was  lowered  bow  foremost,  and  almost 
filled  as  it  struck  the  sea.  A  second  boat,  which 
had  been  used  to  bring  the  horde  from  the  shore, 
rounded  the  Pole  Star's  bow  and  was  rowed  alongside. 
The  two  boats,  with  the  leader  in  the  stern  of  the  one 
which  had  been  lowered,  glided  across  the  harbour 
and  disappeared  around  the  wall  of  rock. 

Stirling  wondered  at  this  manoeuvre,  but  had  not 
long  to  wait.  The  leader's  boat  returned  soon  and 
the  Russians  crowded  to  the  rail.  Their  leader 
came  up  a  dangling  falls  and  pointed  toward  the 
entrance,  then  gave  a  series  of  orders.  The  anchor 
chain  was  cleared  of  wreckage  and  steam  plumed 
from  a  leak  in  the  capstan  engine.  The  clank  of 


OVER  THE  STERN  189 

chain  coming  through  the  hawse  was  followed  by 
the  slow  turning  of  the  screw.  A  roar  greeted  this 
sign  of  departure,  and  was  thrown  back  by  the  rocky 
walls. 

Putting  down  the  wheel,  a  Russian  marine  acted 
as  pilot  in  a  slovenly  manner.  The  ship  grazed  the 
shore,  scraped  over  a  ledge  of  rocks,  and  swung  too 
far  for  the  entrance.  It  was  backed  by  a  quick 
reversal  of  the  engines.  A  second  try  was  more  suc- 
cessful. The  taper  jib  boom  pointed  down  the 
narrow  strait  and  sheered  in  time  to  meet  the  first 
rollers  of  the  Gulf  of  Anadir. 

Stirling  was  openly  astonished  at  the  ability  shown 
by  the  Russians,  in  building  steam  in  the  boilers. 
One  of  their  number  understood  engines  and  bells; 
he  had  even  turned  the  globe  valve  which  led  to  the 
capstan  cylinder.  This  revealed  that  there  were 
men  in  Siberia  who  had  missed  their  calling. 

The  ship  met  the  long-running  rollers,  swung  a 
point  toward  the  east,  as  near  as  Stirling  could  deter- 
mine from  the  position  of  the  sun,  and  drove  on 
swiftly. 

A  cape  jutted  out  into  the  Gulf  of  Anadir,  and 
toward  this  headland  the  leader  pointed  as  the  speed 
increased  and  the  propeller  thrashed  astern.  Stir- 
ling shaded  his  eyes  from  the  sun's  glint  and  studied 
the  cape.  He  saw  the  reason  for  the  change  of 
course.  A  wreck  lay  athwart  two  fanglike  rocks 
over  which  surf  beat.  The  skeleton  of  a  giant  ship 
marked  how  the  revolutionists  had  been  cast  away. 


190  THE  ICE  PILOT 

The  Pole  Star  neared  this  wreck  and  reversed  her 
screw.  The  leader  sprang  to  the  forepeak  and 
called  a  loud  order.  A  whaleboat  was  lowered,  and 
ten  minutes  later  the  Russians  returned  from  the 
wreck  with  a  chronometer  and  a  sextant.  These 
had  been  denied  them  when  Marr  had  barricaded 
the  cabin  of  the  poacher. 

Stirling  felt  the  lack  of  sleep  creep  over  his  tired, 
aching  muscles.  He  shook  himself  like  a  shaggy  dog 
and  forced  his  brain  to  remain  awake.  The  creaking 
of  the  fall  blocks,  the  clang  of  an  engine-room  bell, 
the  throbbing  of  the  propeller — all  were  so  shiplike 
and  real  that  he  had  difficulty  in  believing  the  ship 
was  captured,  pillaged,  and  now  off  for  a  new  venture 
in  Northern  waters. 

He  widened  his  tired  eyes  and  allowed  them  to 
stray  over  the  deck  which  lay  like  a  pointed  seed 
below  him.  The  Russians  went  about  their  duties 
with  newborn  vim  and  determination,  as  the  leader 
stood  at  the  canvas  rail  which  overlooked  the  waist 
and  called  his  orders.  The  lower  sails  were  set  to  a 
western  breeze.  Under  the  influence  of  these  and 
the  steam,  the  Pole  Star  rapidly  threw  the  dark  coast 
of  Siberia  over  her  stern  and  drove  for  the  Strait  of 
Bering  and  the  American  shore. 


M 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

BEFORE    THE    WHEEL 

ARVELLING  at  the  turn  of  events,  Stir- 
ling groped  about  the  crow's-nest  and  found 
his  twelve-diameter  glasses,  which  had  been 
used  in  whale  hunting.  He  turned  their  screw,  ad- 
justed the  focus  for  his  eyes,  and  swept  the  open 
Gulf  of  Anadir  and  the  Bering  beyond  the  jib  boom. 
No  sign  of  ship  or  sail  showed.  Ice  was  here  and 
there  in  dotted  specks,  drifting  with  the  great  North 
current  which  would  reverse  its  direction  and  flow 
back  to  the  Arctic  before  the  month  was  old. 

Noon  passed  with  the  Pole  Star  changing  its 
course  degree  by  degree.  Stirling  dozed  in  an  erect 
position.  Each  time  he  awoke  it  was  with  a  guilty 
start.  There  was  grave  danger  that  some  of  the 
Russians  would  mount  the  shrouds,  since  they  had 
already  been  along  the  yards.  The  canvas  they  had 
set  billowed  before  the  breeze  and  blotted  out  a  full 
view  of  the  deck. 

Stirling  thought  of  the  girl  who  must  be  with  the 
skipper  and  the  Frisco  dock  rat.  It  was  evident  that 
Marr  had  received  a  crushing  blow  from  the  rock 
hurled  by  the  Russian;  the  little  skipper's  face  had 
been  white  and  drawn  as  he  barricaded  the  hatchway. 

191 


192  THE  ICE  PILOT 

Stirling  dwelt  on  thoughts  of  the  girl  in  a  dazed 
manner.  He  realized  that  the  situation  called  for 
every  ounce  of  his  energies,  yet  he  would  have  given 
a  year  of  life  for  a  nap  in  security. 

Afternoon  and  six  bells,  which  a  Russian  struck 
forward,  brought  sight  of  the  open  sea  rimmed  by  a 
dark  line  to  southward  which  marked  the  island  of 
St.  Lawrence.  Stirling  raised  his  glasses  and  swept 
the  horizon  to  the  north  and  east.  He  was  on  the 
point  of  lowering  them  from  his  eyes  when  a  speck 
stood  out  with  tiny  distinctness.  He  focused  for 
this  speck,  and  pieced  together  detail  by  detail,  with 
splendid  sight.  He  smiled  slightly  as  he  dropped 
his  hands  to  his  sides  and  glanced  down  at  the  deck. 
The  revenue  cutter  Bear  had  already  sighted  the 
Pole  Star.  She  was  bearing  to  the  north  so  as  to 
head  off  the  ship.  There  seemed  no  escape,  for  the 
land  on  either  coast  ran  into  a  funnel  whose  snout 
was  the  Bering  Strait. 

"Saved!"  exclaimed  Stirling.  "I'm  saved  and 
she's  saved.  I  think  we  are  saved — the  girl  and  I. 
But  Heaven  help  the  others  on  this  unfortunate 
ship." 

Sincerely  hoping  for  capture,  Stirling  prayed 
silently,  raising  the  glasses  for  a  second  sweep  of  the 
sea  to  the  north  and  east.  The  speck  had  grown 
into  a  trailing  pencil  of  smoke  which  lay  athwart  the 
slaty  sky. 

Glancing  over  the  crow's-nest,  Stirling  watched  the 
Russian  leader  on  the  poop.  He  saw  a  chart  being 


BEFORE  THE  WHEEL  193 

unrolled  like  a  huge  rug,  and  two  Russians  followed 
a  pointing  finger.  The  leader  rose  from  a  crouched 
position  and  started  to  give  an  order  to  the  wheelsman, 
then  this  order  died  in  his  throat.  A  cry  rolled  along 
the  ship,  and  was  repeated  in  guttural  accents.  The 
revolutionists  gathered  on  the  forepeak  had  dis- 
covered the  smoke  over  the  starboard  rail,  and 
pointed  and  muttered  as  they  realized  its  import. 

A  bell  clanged  as  the  leader  reached  for  the  engine-* 
room  telegraph  and  set  it  for  full  speed.  Seamen 
of  doubtful  ability  swarmed  aloft  and  started  un- 
furling the  upper  canvas;  three  reached  the  fore- 
topgallant  yard  and  went  out  on  the  footrope  with 
clumsy  feet. 

They  were  so  near  to  Stirling  he  could  have  shot 
them  from  the  spars.  The  Pole  Star  canted  and 
drove  north  along  the  meridian  line,  its  course 
parallel  to  that  of  the  fast-coming  Bear. 

The  hour  that  followed  was  filled  with  mingled 
hopes  and  fears.  The  revenue  cutter  had  been 
rated  a  speedy  ship  by  whalers  who  knew  it,  but 
it  was  two  knots  slower  than  the  Pole  Star.  This 
fact  came  home  to  Stirling  with  the  force  of  a  blow. 
The  canvas  which  the  Russians  set  had  aided  in  the 
long  running.  The  Bear  was  not  closing  the  gap  to 
any  extent,  but  held  doggedly  on. 

Stirling  studied  the  distance,  saw  that  it  was  a 
losing  game,  then  reached  in  his  pocket  for  the 
revolver.  He  could  hit  the  wheelsman,  who  was 
standing  on  the  poop,  and  this  would  cause  the 


194  THE  ICE  PILOT 

ship  to  sheer.  He  took  slow  aim.  The  shot  he 
fired  missed  the  wheelsman's  head  by  inches;  the 
second  shot  splintered  a  spoke;  the  third  caught  the 
wheelsman  in  the  left  shoulder.  He  released  his  hold 
and  cried  a  warning. 

The  crew  swarmed  up  the  poop  steps,  glared 
toward  the  crow's-nest,  and  set  about  building  a  bar- 
ricade before  the  wheel.  This  was  done  as  Stirling 
ceased  his  firing;  their  number  was  too  great  to 
accomplish  anything  of  lasting  moment.  The  cart- 
ridges in  the  tiny  gun  were  running  low,  and  the 
bullets  were  of  too  small  a  calibre  to  slay  save  when 
they  struck  a  vital  spot. 

A  second  idea  came  to  him  as  he  pocketed  the  gun. 
Reaching  downward  he  searched  for  a  knife,  which 
should  have  been  in  the  binocular  case  of  the  crow's- 
nest.  With  it  he  could  cut  the  lines  leading  to  all 
the  sails  on  the  foremast,  which  ran  by  the  crow's- 
nest  and  up  the  topmast.  The  knife  was  missing! 

" I'm  beat!"  he  said.  "The  Bear  will  never  catch 
us!" 


CHAPTER  XXV 

IN   THE    GRIP    OF   THE    UNKNOWN 

THE  Bear  had  one  fact  in  its  favour:  the  two 
ships  were  driving  for  the  Bering  Strait.     The 
Strait  was  less  than  forty  miles  from  headland 
to  headland,  and  between  the  two  capes  lay  the 
Diomede   Islands.     It  was   possible  that   the  Bear 
would  head  off  the  Pole  Star  before  reaching  the 
Arctic  Ocean. 

Stirling  studied  the  situation  with  scant  hope. 
The  Russians,  urged  to  desperation,  had  succeeded  in 
getting  every  turn  that  was  possible  from  the  screw. 
Steam  plumed  in  the  pipe  aft  of  the  funnel ;  the  ship 
throbbed  and  racked;  the  clang  of  doors  and  the  lurid 
light  which  streamed  from  the  engine-room  companion 
and  the  open  hatches  told  of  frantic  work  by  the 
leader  who  had  a  firm  grip  on  the  revolutionists. 

The  Diomede  Islands  rose  out  of  the  sea  and  stood 
with  their  rocky  walls  black  against  the  sun.  Far- 
off  Cape  Prince  of  Wales  seemed  a  cloud  bank  of 
sombre  aspect.  Stirling  climbed  to -the  top  of  the 
crow's-nest  and  studied  the  picture.  The  fast- 
flying  Bear  had  held  her  own.  The  distance  between 
the  two  ships  was  not  more  than  eight  miles;  this, 
however,  was  beyond  range  of  the  Bear's  guns. 

195 


196  THE  ICE  PILOT 

"A  stern  chase,"  he  said,  with  a  glance  at  the 
horizon  ahead.  "We'll  make  the  Arctic." 

The  Pole  Star  crashed  through  light  floe  ice  and 
sheered  abeam  of  the  Diomedes.  She  headed  al- 
most west  by  the  compass,  which  course  would  bring 
her  in  sight  of  Herald  Island  and  Wrangel  Land. 

Heavier  ice  fields  loomed  ahead,  and  Stirling 
watched  them  with  concern.  The  Russian  wheels- 
man peered  over  the  barricade  and  took  his  orders 
from  the  leader;  the  ship  ported  and  starboarded, 
then  steadied  with  clumsy  steering.  The  crash  of 
ancient  floes  against  her  stem,  and  the  grating  as 
the  ice  slipped  alongside,  caused  the  revolutionists  to 
cry  aloud.  They  swarmed  over  the  forepeak  and 
pointed  excitedly. 

Stirling  glanced  aft.  The  Bear  had  not  been  so 
fortunate  in  choosing  a  passage  through  the  ice, 
and  had  dropped  back  in  the  chase.  He  acted  with 
sudden  inspiration. 

Leaning  over  the  edge  of  the  crow's-nest  he  cried : 
"Make  for  the  open  sea,  you  fools!  Starboard 
three  points!  If  you  don't  we'll  all  be  crushed!" 

The  leader  blinked  upward  and  widened  his  small 
eyes.  He  was  a  gross  man  in  a  uniform  of  furs  and 
sealskin  boots  stolen  from  the  Pole  Star's  slop-chest. 
He  turned  to  the  wheelman  after  a  quick  squint 
toward  the  ice  ahead. 

The  wheel  was  changed.  The  ship  sheered,  missed 
a  heavy-floe  formation,  and  entered  a  lane  of  drift 
ice. 


IN  THE  GRIP  OF  THE  UNKNOWN    197 

"Steady!"  shouted  Stirling,  feeling  the  wine  of 
the  game.  "Hold  her  steady,  there!" 

He  smiled  despite  the  danger,  for  the  act  of  giving 
commands  and  finding  them  obeyed  showed  that  the 
Russians  were  new  to  ice  work.  They  would  most 
certainly  wreck  the  ship  and  drown  all  on  board. 
The  century-old  floes  through  which  they  glided  had 
been  detached  from  the  polar  pack,  but  once  past 
these,  a  course  held  for  the  America  shore  would 
bring  safety. 

The  Bear  had  not  been  as  fortunate  as  the  poacher. 
The  ice  between  the  Diomedes  and  Cape  Prince  of 
Wales  was  almost  impassable,  and  the  lieutenant 
in  charge  of  the  revenue  cutter  decided  to  take  no 
chances.  He  reduced  speed  and  struck  for  the 
Alaskan  coast,  since  it  was  evident  that  this  course 
would  again  intercept  the  poacher.  Their  place  of 
meeting  would  be  off  Kotzebue  Sound. 

Stirling  forgot  the  massacre  aboard  the  Pole  Star. 
He  never  had  sided  with  the  former  crew;  and  the 
revolutionists,  with  their  ignorance  of  the  ice,  were 
less  to  be  feared.  They  had  seized  a  ship,  were 
running  amuck,  but  at  least  had  the  virtue  of  motion. 
Their  end  might  come  in  a  score  of  ways,  and  it  was 
to  Stirling's  interest  to  see  that  the  ship  remained 
afloat.  There  were  the  girl  and  Marr  and  the  Frisco 
dock  rat  to  consider. 

Stirling's  blood  tingled  at  the  excitement  of  the 
game;  he  breathed  the  refreshing  air  and  raised  his 
square  shoulders.  Open  water  and  whale  slick 


198  THE  ICE  PILOT 

showed  ahead,  and  beyond  this  the  eastern  horizon 
and  the  gray  shadow  of  land.  They  were  now  plung- 
ing north  by  the  compass,  with  a  slight  inclination 
toward  the  east.  The  course,  he  figured,  should 
read  northeast  by  north. 

Lulled  by  the  swaying  and  throbbing  of  the  ship, 
he  sensed  a  progression  of  true  adventure.  He  had 
come  North  to  whale.  The  whaling  voyage  had 
turned  into  an  illicit  sealing  expedition.  Now  the 
revolutionsists  closely  followed  by  the  Bear,  held  the 
deck. 

The  low  Arctic  sun  swung  closer  to  the  horizon. 
Within  the  purple  haze  astern  came  flashes  of  crim- 
son light  which  died  to  lavender,  and  the  lavender 
into  velvet  dusk.  Night  was  falling  upon  the  wild 
sea.  It  was  well  past  ten  o'clock.  The  revolution- 
ists, busy  at  the  fires  and  the  gin,  gave  scant  atten- 
tion to  the  ship's  bells. 

Stirling  dozed  with  his  head  against  the  rim  of 
the  crow's-nest,  woke  at  odd  times,  and  yawned. 
Sleep  had  overcome  his  stout  frame.  He  peered 
down  at  the  deck,  saw  that  it  was  almost  deserted, 
then  lowered  himself  into  the  bottom  of  the  nest  and 
rested  his  chin  on  his  drawn-up  knees.  Here  he 
slumbered  through  the  night. 

Awaking  with  a  start  of  surprise,  he  found  that  the 
day  had  dawned.  He  rose  and  stared  out  over  the  bow 
of  the  ship.  Ice  floes  showed  close  to  the  port  rail,  and 
beyond  these  the  open  sea  and  the  cold  glint  of  the 
great  North  pack.  He  swung  to  starboard  and  stud- 


IN  THE  GRIP  OF  THE  UNKNOWN    199 

ied  the  haze  through  which  the  sun  was  rising  on  a 
long  slant.  Land  was  there,  and  he  made  a  swift 
calculation — the  ship  must  be  crossing  the  open 
Kotzebue  Sound. 

Out  of  the  land  mist  as  the  sun  veiled  itself  behind 
a  cloud  there  emerged  a  leaping  thing  of  well- 
sheeted  canvas  and  belching  funnels.  The  Bear 
had  stolen  a  march  on  the  poacher  during  the  hours 
of  the  night,  and  a  shot  came  skipping  across  the 
waves.  It  missed  the  Pole  Star's  stern  by  a  scant 
cable's  length.  Another  followed  from  the  revenue 
cutter's  bow  gun,  and  this  burst  in  the  whaleboats 
that  lined  the  starboard  rail. 

A  roar  of  fright  and  defiance  rolled  upward  to 
Stirling.  The  leader  sprang  from  the  galley  house 
and  dashed  up  the  poop  steps.  A  horde  of  his  fol- 
lowers swarmed  from  the  forecastle  hatch  and  the 
forehold,  and  some  leaped  down  the  engine-room 
companion.  The  funnel  belched  big  clouds  of  smoke 
and  the  fire  doors  clanged.  The  Pole  Star  swerved 
toward  the  west  and  the  open  sea.  This  manreuvre 
saved  the  revolutionists  from  certain  capture. 

Stirling  waited  with  held  breath  and  rigid  lips. 
It  was  nip  and  tuck  for  the  flying  poacher,  but 
gradually  the  distance  between  her  and  the  cutter 
increased.  The  next  shots  fell  short. 

Men  danced  on  deck  and  shook  their  fists  toward 
the  cutter,  while  the  stokehold  crew  took  turns  in 
coming  to  the  rail  of  their  hatchway  and  raving  at 
the  Bear.  They  glanced  aloft  at  the  lone  figure  in 


200  THE  ICE  PILOT 

the  crow's-nest,  but  there  was  no  malice  in  their 
expressions. 

Stirling's  blood  tingled  at  the  excitement  of  the 
game,  and  he  lost  his  enmity  for  the  Russians.  They 
acted  like  children  freed  from  bondage.  They  had 
fled  from  Vladivostok,  been  wrecked  in  the  Gulf  of 
Anadir,  and  were  now  on  the  second  leg  of  their 
adventure.  It  led  to  the  icy  North  and  strange 
waters. 

The  ship  plunged  away  from  the  coast  and  toward 
the  North  pack.  Stirling  realized  that  the  Bear 
would  follow  to  the  bitter  end,  and  he  knew  there 
was  also  another  revenue  cutter  in  the  Arctic  Ocean 
— the  chances  were  slim  for  the  Russians  to  escape, 
and  the  trap  might  be  sprung  at  Point  Barrow  which 
juts  far  out  into  the  Arctic. 

Hurtling  west,  and  then  edging  toward  the  north 
as  the  day  advanced,  the  Pole  Star  avoided  the 
pack  and  settled  down  to  steady  progress  toward 
the  American  shore  in  the  vicinity  of  Icy  Cape. 

The  day  unrolled  with  the  cold  sun  swinging  over 
the  land  and  through  the  mists.  The  night,  which 
came  with  slow  shadowing,  found  Stirling  weak  and 
listless  from  lack  of  food  and  water,  and  he  realized 
that  an  effort  would  have  to  be  made  to  escape  from 
the  crow's-nest.  The  crew  had  drunk  the  entire 
store  of  gin  and  trade  whisky,  and  they  roamed  the 
deck  in  groups,  their  attention  fastened  upon  the  low 
coast  along  which  many  Arctic  whalers  had  been 
wrecked.  The  passageway  between  this  coast  and 


IN  THE  GRIP  OF  THE  UNKNOWN    201 

the  grounded  ice  was  narrow  in  places.  A  north- 
easter would  crush  the  ship  and  drive  it  ashore. 

The  lane  of  ice-free  waters  widened  as  Cape  Lis- 
burne  was  passed.  This  lane  often  had  been  blocked 
by  light  floes,  and  Stirling  studied  the  grounded 
pack  to  the  west  and  north,  coming  to  the  conclusion 
that  the  season  would  be  an  extremely  open  One. 
Never  before  in  his  experience  had  he  seen  clearer 
steaming  to  the  eastward. 

Night  came  on  with  the  Pole  Star  logging  thirteen 
knots.  The  ship  was  surprisingly  handled  by  the 
Russians,  who  worked  more  by  intuition  than  from 
experience,  but  they  had  the  sense  of  drift  and  direc- 
tion. The  Bear  was  left  hull  down  in  the  flecked 
field  astern,  but  still  coming  on  grimly. 

Walruses  and  seals  were  distributed  by  the  wash 
of  the  ship;  lone  wolves  howled  from  the  shore; 
a  polar  bear  lumbered  over  the  ice  as  the  Pole 
Star  crashed  through,  staggered,  and  resumed  its 
eastward  course.  The  Russians  on  deck  surged 
aft  for  fear  of  catastrophe.  Surrounding  the  wheel- 
man and  the  leader,  they  peered  anxiously  toward 
the  after  companion  which  was  barricaded  on  the 
inside. 

Streamers  of  yellow  light  shot  athwart  the  eastern 
heavens,  and  this  light  brightened  into  a  nebula  of 
crimson.  The  aurora  played  and  flickered  and 
surged  upward  toward  the  zenith,  while  through  it 
the  pale  stars  shone.  A  moon  rose  and  rolled  along 
the  lowland  which  lay  between  Lisburne  and  Icy 


202  THE  ICE  PILOT 

Cape.  The  Barren  Country  stood  revealed  in  cold 
splendour,  stretching  to  the  ramparts  of  the  Macken- 
zie River  and  the  mountains  at  Fort  Yukon. 

A  sense  of  motion  came  to  Stirling,  for  he  knew 
the  waters.  Never  before,  however,  had  he  found 
the  sea  so  open.  The  aged  and  grounded  floes  were 
well  to  the  northwest,  and  had  not  been  driven  above 
the  seven-fathom  line.  The  lane  they  left  for  navi- 
gation was  wide  enough  to  float  all  the  navies  of  the 
world,  and  only  a  great  storm  would  close  it  behind 
the  Pole  Star. 

Midnight  found  Stirling  weary  of  the  details  of 
the  voyage  and  weak  from  lack  of  food  and  water. 
A  languor  stole  over  his  rugged  frame;  he  yawned 
and  attempted  to  sleep,  but  a  clang  of  a  fire  door 
and  a  quarter-point  swing  of  the  ship  awakened  him 
to  dull  consciousness.  He  peered  over  the  edge  of 
the  crow's-nest. 

The  deck  below  seemed  a  haven;  there  was  food 
and  water  there.  The  way  down  would  be  short. 
He  searched  about  for  some  sign  of  the  Russians. 
Aside  from  the  wheelman's  head  over  the  barricade 
and  a  towering  leader  standing  by  the  weather  rail 
of  the  quarter-deck,  there  was  no  one  in  sight. 

The  funnel,  almost  beneath  shrouds,  was  crowned 
with  a  ring  of  fire,  and  a  shift  of  wind  now  and 
then  drove  smoke  upward.  Stirling  choked  in  this, 
tried  to  marshal  the  details  of  an  escape,  but  felt  his 
position  was  far  too  desperate  to  await  daylight.  The 
Russians  were  sleeping  off  the  last  of  the  gin.  Their 


IN  THE  GRIP  OF  THE  UNKNOWN    203 

leader  had  given  orders  to  drive  for  Point  Barrow 
and  take  the  chances  to  be  met  there. 

Stirling  widened  his  eyes  and  pressed  his  hand  to 
his  hot  brow,  studying  the  white  lane  of  water  which 
was  bordered  by  ice  on  one  quarter  and  the  dark 
land  upon  the  other.  A  providence  had  the  ship 
in  its  grip.  Small  floes  were  avoided  by  no  effort 
of  the  wheelman  and  thin  ice,  formed  overnight,  was 
ripped  as  satin  by  a  knife. 

Point  Barrow  was  less  than  five  hours'  steaming 
ahead,  and  beyond  the  Point,  with  its  whaling  sta- 
tion and  its  native  village,  lay  the  open  Sea  of  Beau- 
fort and  the  unknown  land  of  Keenan.  It  was  a 
desperate  sea  into  which  to  venture,  and  the  horror 
of  the  short  month  came  home  to  Stirling.  He  was 
facing  cold,  starvation,  and  isolation — a  trinity  of 
despair. 

The  stars  paled  as  the  slow  dawn  started  creeping 
along  the  eastern  heavens.  The  onward  surge  of 
the  ship  through  the  dream  scene  of  flecked  ice 
patches  and  mirrorlike  water  became  a  vision  of 
unreality. 

Stirling  searched  the  way  ahead,  and  recognized 
familiar  landmarks  from  other  voyages.  The  ribs 
of  a  whale  ship  showed  high  driven  upon  the  tundra. 
This  was  the  wreck  of  the  George  M.  Foster,  thrust 
ashore  three  seasons  before  by  the  pressure  of  the 
North  pack. 

Other  wrecks  marked  the  beach,  showing  where 
a  fleet  of  whalers  had  attempted  to  gain  the  shelter  of 


204  THE  ICE  PILOT 

Point  Barrow.  A  northwester  had  scattered  them 
and  laid  their  bones  out  upon  the  pale  Arctic  wilds. 
Men  had  died  there  from  starvation  and  cold. 

Native  villages  showed,  with  their  summer  huts 
gaunt  and  bare  against  the  snow,  and  behind  them 
igloos,  fast  melting  in  the  warm  air.  Kayaks  and 
umiaks  dotted  the  beach;  dogs  came  down  to  the 
shore  and  stared  at  the  ship.  A  head  was  thrust 
through  a  tent's  bark  door,  and  a  hand  waved. 
Then  afterward  had  come  the  rushing  of  dark  forms 
along  the  tundra  and  the  cries  of  natives. 

The  wheelsman  held  the  centre  of  the  course  be- 
tween the  North  pack  and  the  sand  spits.  The  leader, 
muffled  to  the  eyes  in  sealskin,  came  out  of  the  galley 
and  glanced  aloft.  The  orders  he  gave  were  for  more 
steam,  and  the  funnel  belched  forth  smoke  and 
driven  cinders.  The  screw  thrashed  as  the  ship 
hurtled  on  into  the  brightening  dawn. 

Stirling  climbed  out  of  the  crow's-nest,  lowered  his 
legs  over  its  forward  edge,  and  sat  there  with  his 
hands  gripping  one  of  the  downhauls.  The  sea  ahead 
was  polished  and  rippleless,  the  way  to  Point  Barrow 
was  open,  and  already  the  land  had  bent  to  the  north 
and  west.  They  were  now  rounding  Alaska. 

A  shout  rose  from  the  dark  deck,  forms  swarmed 
from  the  forecastle,  and  the  ship  took  on  churning  life. 
The  leader  had  sensed  the  danger  to  be  met  with  at 
Point  Barrow.  A  premonition  had  seized  him  that 
the  Bear  might  have  signalled  by  wireless  to  a  waiting 
government  boat. 


IN  THE  GRIP  OF  THE  UNKNOWN    205 

Stirling  divined  that  this  would  be  the  case,  and 
pressed  his  palm  against  his  head.  The  throbbing 
of  the  ship,  felt  at  the  masthead,  drove  a  surge  of 
nausea  through  his  stout  frame.  The  end  was  close 
at  hand,  unless  they  struck  out  to  open  sea,  through 
the  ice  floes,  and  avoided  the  Point. 

A  misted  sun  rose  in  the  north  and  east,  directly 
before  the  taper  jib  boom  of  the  Pole  Star.  It  drove 
the  last  of  the  aurora  from  the  sky,  rose  in  a  rolling 
eye  of  fire,  and  brought  out  all  the  details  of  the 
stretching  Arctic  wild. 

To  the  north  and  west  showed  great  floes,  which 
had  grounded  upon  the  shallow  land  which  marked 
the  seven-fathom  bank.  Between  these  floes  lanes 
appeared,  filled  with  whale  slick  and  sporting  seals. 
They  led  to  the  true  north  and  the  solid  pack  below 
the  cold  horizon. 

Swinging  the  helm  with  sudden  intuition,  the 
leader  drove  the  ship  down  a  wide  lane  and  away 
from  the  shore.  Stirling  sensed  this  manoeuvre  was 
to  avoid  being  sighted  at  the  Point.  The  leader 
had  spread  a  chart  out  upon  the  quarter-deck, 
and  his  thumb  traced  a  course  which  would  take 
him  away  from  any  possible  pursuit;  it  would  also  be 
a  venture  into  an  unknown  sea.  Blond  Eskimos  and 
castaways  from  Franklin's  expedition  were  supposed 
to  people  the  polar  shores  of  Banks  and  Keenan 
Land. 

Stirling  studied  the  ship's  deck  with  eyes  bright- 
ened by  hunger  and  resolve.  He  sought  for  a  place 


206  THE  ICE  PILOT 

to  descend — an  opening  which  would  allow  him  to 
reach  the  forehold  where  stores  and  water  could  be 
found. 

The  revolutionists  were  scattered  from  the  forepeak 
to  the  break  of  the  poop.  Smoke  showed  from  the 
galley  stovepipe.  The  engine-room  crew  and  stoke- 
hold crowd  had  redoubled  their  efforts  in  order  to 
sheer  the  ship  from  the  land.  Word  had  been 
passed  down  that  the  Bear  might  signal  the  govern- 
ment people  at  Point  Barrow,  which  was  almost  in 
sight. 

Stirling  glanced  aft  to  where  the  Russian  at  the 
wheel  was  taking  his  orders  from  the  leader  who  had 
sprung  upon  the  weather  rail  and  was  holding  to  the 
mizzen  shrouds. 

"  The  chance  for  escape  from  the  crow's-nest  had 
come.  The  mainsail  hung  from  the  main  yard,  and 
its  flapping  canvas  would  afford  some  slight  shelter. 
Stirling  weighed  the  opportunity  and  prepared  to 
make  the  effort.  The  open  main  hatch  invited  with 
its  glimpse  of  boxes  and  scattered  trade  stuff. 

He  lowered  himself  from  the  crow's-nest  and  stood 
on  the  jack  above  the  Jacob's  ladder.  Here  he  was 
sheltered  from  a  chance  glance  aloft.  He  poised 
himself,  gathered  together  his  remaining  strength, 
then  reached  downward  and  grasped  the  ladder's 
top,  his  eyes  slowly  swinging  aft.  They  rested  on 
the  barricade  of  canvas  which  had  been  erected  for- 
ward of  the  cabin  companion.  A  form  moved 
behind  this  canvas,  and  the  eastern  light  brought 


IN  THE  GRIP  OF  THE  UNKNOWN    207 

out  the  details.     It  was  Slim,  the  Frisco  dock  rat,  a 
ragged  tam-o'-shanter  capping  his  uncut  hair. 

With  his  face  pressed  over  the  edge  of  the  canvas, 
Slim  took  in  the  details  of  the  ship  and  the  revolu- 
tionists and  frowned.  A  second  form  moved  close 
to  his  side  and  the  girl  glanced  over  the  canvas, 
her  eyes  raised  in  tearful  search  of  the  crow's-nest. 
When  they  lighted  upon  Stirling,  she  beckoned  with 
a  white  finger,  then  gave  a  heart-rendering,  poignant 
call  of  distress. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

IN   THE    SUDDEN    DARKNESS 

THE  Ice  Pilot  had  no  way  to  answer  the  piercing 
call   of  the  girl,  yet  the  revolutionists  might 
detect    her    presence  at   any   moment.     The 
leader  was  alert  and  kept  sweeping  the  sea  to  port 
for  a  chance  opening  which  would  lead  farther  away 
from  the  land.     He  turned  once  toward  the  wheels- 
man, berated  him  in  Russian  for  not  putting  the 
wheel  over  soon  enough,  as  the  ship  narrowly  escaped 
a  heavy  floe. 

Again  the  girl  beckoned  as  Stirling  watched  the 
two  forms  beyond  the  canvas  barricade.  This  time 
she  had  lifted  her  pale  face  so  that  he  could  see  her 
shoulders  and  arms.  They  were  slight  and  childish, 
and  tears  glistened  upon  her  cheeks.  Her  call  was 
not  to  be  denied,  and  Stirling  lowered  his  legs,  swung 
far  out  over  the  deck,  hesitated  in  that  position,  and 
turned  his  head. 

Slim,  the  sole  survivor  of  the  forecastle  crew,  was 
reaching  downward,  his  back  straining.  He  straight- 
ened up  and  staggered  aft  to  the  taffrail.  The  bur- 
den he  carried  froze  Stirling  in  the  act  of  descending 
the  ladder,  and  an  icy  chill  swept  through  the  Pilot's 
body,  which  almost  unnerved  him.  He  wound  his 

208 


IN  THE  SUDDEN  DARKNESS         209 

fingers  about  the  ratlines  and  breathed  deeply.  The 
Arctic  air  seemed  strangely  quiet. 

Slim  reached  the  rail  and  lifted  one  leg  to  the  top. 
He  removed  his  tasselled  cap,  shifted  his  burden, 
turned  and  glanced  at  the  girl,  who  had  covered 
her  eyes  with  her  hands;  then  he  raised  the  body  he 
carried  and  hurled  it  astern  of  the  fast-driving  Pole 
Star. 

Stirling  watched  the  rude  burial  with  straining 
eyes.  Marr  had  been  wounded  by  the  rock  which 
had  struck  his  breast  in  the  fight  with  the  revolution- 
ists, and  the  little  skipper  must  have  died  some  time 
after  the  blow.  He,  perhaps,  had  been  nursed  ten- 
derly by  the  girl  during  the  hours  of  the  chase  from 
the  Gulf  of  Anadir.  Her  call  showed  that  she 
feared  Slim,  who  was  now  alone  with  her  in  the  stern 
of  the  Pole  Star. 

Again  Stirling  stared  at  the  girl.  She  removed 
her  hands  from  her  eyes,  turned  slowly,  and  grasped 
the  edge  of  the  canvas  barricade.  Her  hair  had 
fallen  and  she  stood  revealed  as  a  frail  creature  in 
the  grip  of  a  strong  man.  She  motioned  with  a 
flutter  of  her  hand  as  she  released  her  fingers  from 
the  canvas,  then  slowly  sank  to  her  knees,  buried 
her  face  in  her  palms,  and  sobbed. 

Slim  turned  from  the  taffrail,  squared  his  shoul- 
ders with  an  upward  jerk,  and  eyed  the  girl.  He 
smiled  cunningly,  then  came  forward,  glanced  at  the 
Russian  leader  in  the  shrouds,  and  tapped  the  girl 
on  the  arm. 


210  THE  ICE  PILOT 

Stirling  started  descending  the  shrouds  with 
fevered  energy.  He  reached  the  standing  rigging 
and  found  a  foothold  in  the  ratlines,  turned  his  chin* 
and  glared  aft  like  a  shaggy  bear.  The  girl  and  Slim 
had  vanished  down  the  companion  and  the  noise 
they  made  in  closing  the  companion  slide  had  at- 
tracted the  attention  of  the  leader.  His  head  was 
quarter  faced  away  from  view. 

It  was  then  that  Stirling  sprang  to  the  deck,  and 
dashed  for  the  open  main  hatch.  His  way  to  the 
poop  was  barred  by  a  group  of  revolutionists  gath- 
ered at  the  port  rail  in  the  waist.  They  were  watch- 
ing the  unfolding  shore  where  it  flattened  out  into 
Point  Barrow.  A  cruiser  cutter  showed  there,  flags 
flying  from  her  signal  halyards,  steam  jetting  from 
aft  her  funnel.  She  was  balked,  however,  for  a 
rampart  of  century-old  ice  formed  a  barrier  between 
the  lane  in  which  she  rode  and  the  one  through  which 
the  Pole  Star  was  striking  out  to  the  north  and  west. 

Stirling  hesitated  a  moment  at  the  hatch.  He  saw 
that  the  cutter  had  waited  off  the  Point  in  expect- 
ancy of  capturing  the  poacher.  The  chase  might 
lead  out  from  shore  and  into  the  pack  ice  which  ex- 
tended to  the  Pole. 

A  shout  rolled  along  the  deck  from  aft,  and  the 
leader  turned  in  time  to  see  the  crouching  figure  by 
the  main  hatch.  He  called,  and  the  Russians  at 
the  rail  wheeled  and  started  over  the  deck.  Stirling 
reached  in  his  pocket,  brought  forth  the  little  silver- 
plated  revolver,  and  jabbed  it  forward.  The  knot 


IN  THE  SUDDEN  DARKNESS         211 

of  men  recoiled.  Others  swarmed  out  from  the  gal- 
ley house  and  rounded  it  with  careful  steps,  but 
they,  too,  held  back. 

Stirling  laughed  defiantly.  He  feared  the  croak- 
ing sound  of  his  own  voice,  so  parched  and  dry  was 
his  throat.  He  pocketed  the  revolver,  grasped 
the  edge  of  the  hatch,  swinging  out  and  into  the 
sheer.  His  feet  crushed  a  box  as  he  landed  in  the  hold. 
He  straightened  himself,  raised  his  arms,  and,  blink- 
ing in  the  sudden  darkness,  stumbled  aft  toward  the 
lazaret,  and  the  way  to  the  cabin  where  the  girl  was 
quartered. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

IN    THE    PIT 

THE  main  hold  was  littered  with  a  maze  of 
boxes,  bales,  and  bundles,  the  last  made  up  of 
sealskins  roughly  bound,  with  salt  sprinkled 
upon  the  fleshy  side  of  the  pelts.  This  precaution 
had  been  taken  by  Marr  and  Whitehouse  on  the  day 
following  the  raid. 

Stirling  paused  near  where  the  deck  beams  allowed 
a  narrow  passage  through  to  the  lazaret,  and  under 
a  hatchway  which  led  to  the  galley  house  and  the 
cook's  quarters.  He  glanced  around  and  allowed 
his  eyes  to  accustom  themselves  to  the  darkness. 

None  of  the  revolutionists  had  dared  follow  him 
down  through  the  main  hatch.  The  sight  of  the 
revolver  he  had  flashed  at  them  was  a  stern  reminder, 
and  he  felt  of  this  weapon  as  he  waited.  He  heard 
the  steady  clamp  of  the  engines  and  the  calls  in  Rus- 
sian as  the  stokehold  crew  were  urged  to  greater  ef- 
forts. 

The  Pole  Star  was  striking  away  from  Point  Bar- 
row, and  had  sheltered  herself  in  a  long  lane  of  ice 
reaching  deep  within  the  North  pack.  It  would  be 
fortunate,  indeed,  if  this  lane  opened  and  allowed 
the  ship  through  to  the  sea  to  eastward. 

212 


IN  THE  PIT  213 

Stirling  found  a  box  in  the  lazaret  which  had  been 
crashed  open  by  a  rude  heel,  and  through  the  hole 
in  this  he  drew  out  a  double  handful  of  hard  and  dry 
ship's  biscuits.  He  munched  on  these,  and  glanced 
about  for  water.  None  was  in  sight.  He  found 
several  empty  gin  cases  from  which  the  square  faces 
had  been  removed;  a  dark  corner  of  the  lazaret 
was  piled  with  small,  strong  boxes.  The  lower  tier 
of  these  contained  bottles  of  ginger  ale  and  soda.  He 
emptied  three  bottles  of  soda,  waited  a  few  minutes, 
and  then  started  drinking  the  fourth. 

The  effect  was  magical.  The  ship's  biscuits,  whose 
food  value  is  high,  served  to  refresh  his  weary  body, 
and  he  stared  around  with  some  interest  in  his  sur- 
roundings. 

A  stout  door,  heavily  barred  by  a  crossbeam  in 
the  bulkhead,  indicated  the  way  to  the  stokehold 
and  the  after  part  of  the  ship.  He  moved  through 
the  gloom  and  tested  this  crossbeam.  It  could  be 
lifted,  but  he  paused  to  listen.  Clanking  doors  and 
scraping  shovels  on  the  iron  plates  of  the  stokehold 
marked  where  the  Russians  were  feeding  the  Pole 
Star's  fires. 

There  was  no  way  through  to  the  cabin  and  the 
girl  save  by  way  of  the  stokehold  and  the  engine 
room,  and  the  deck  was  crowded  with  alert  revolu- 
tionists. 

Stirling  dropped  his  hand  into  the  side  pocket  of 
his  pea-jacket  and  felt  the  cold  assurance  of  the  little 
revolver's  steel.  It  nerved  him  as  he  drew  out  his 


214  THE  ICE  PILOT 

hand  and  lifted  the  crossbar  which  the  cook  had 
placed  in  order  to  prevent  a  raid  on  the  lazaret. 

An  opening  showed,  lurid  with  furnace  fires  and 
hot  coals.  Three  Russians,  stripped  to  the  waist, 
were  lounging  in  one  corner  of  the  stokehold,  and 
all  were  smoking  cigarettes  made  from  cut  plug  and 
tissue  paper.  Their  attention  was  on  a  fourth  Rus- 
sian, who  was  watching  the  steam  gauge  above  the 
central  boiler. 

Stirling  widened  the  door  by  a  steady  pull  with  his 
fingers,  and  stared  beyond  the  Russian  to  where  an 
opening  showed  in  the  bulkhead.  This  opening 
marked  the  way  to  the  engine  room  and  the  after 
part  of  the  ship. 

Bunker  doors  and  slides  showed  to  port  and  star- 
board, and  the  coal  lay  piled  where  the  passers  had 
shovelled  it.  A  Russian  tossed  away  his  cigarette, 
seized  a  scoop  shovel,  and  stepped  to  the  after  door 
of  the  forward  furnance.  The  glare  which  filled 
the  stokehold  as  he  opened  the  door  gave  Stirling 
an  opportunity. 

Risking  all  on  the  venture,  he  flung  wide  the  bulk- 
head door  which  led  from  the  lazaret  and  dashed 
across  the  scattered  coal,  reaching  the  opening  to  a 
spare  bunker  on  the  starboard  side  of  the  hold  before 
he  was  discovered.  Then  a  Russian  shouted  a  warn- 
ing, and  the  chief  of  the  stokehold  crew  swung  from 
the  furnaces  and  stared  through  the  half  light. 

Stirling  brushed  aside  the  lunging  form  of  a  revolu- 
tionist, and  struck  a  second  Russian  a  swinging  blow 


IN  THE  PIT  215 

beneath  the  ear.  Plunging  on,  he  gained  the  door 
which  led  to  the  engine  room  as  a  slice  bar  was 
hurled  in  his  direction. 

He  wheeled  at  the  door  and  braced  himself.  The 
Russian  he  had  struck  was  slowly  rising  from  the 
iron  plate  before  the  spare  bunker,  and  a  form  swung 
from  the  reflection  of  light  which  streamed  out  of  an 
ash  box  and  lunged  forward.  Stirling  called  a  warn- 
ing as  he  bent,  twisted,  and  worked  his  way  through 
the  bulkhead  door  until  he  reached  the  alleyway 
which  led  to  the  engine  room. 

Flashing  crank  shafts  and  the  polished  glow  of 
metal  blinded  him.  Men  were  on  the  gratings  and 
halfway  up  the  ladder  which  led  to  the  deck  compan- 
ion. Stirling  dodged  around  the  first  and  second 
intermediate  cylinders,  rested  a  hand  on  the  huge 
low-pressure  cylinder;  then  he  dropped  to  one  knee, 
squirmed  beneath  the  tail  shaft,  and  started  crawling 
down  the  shaft  alley. 

The  Russians  had  been  too  startled  to  prevent 
this  manoeuvre,  but  now  they  came  aft  with  torches 
and  pinch  bars.  The  glow  from  the  overhead  sun 
which  streamed  through  the  deck  light  brought  out 
the  details  of  the  shaft  alley  as  far  aft  as  the  second 
coupling.  Behind  this  was  a  narrow  pit  compressed 
on  each  side  by  heavy  planking  and  sloping  at  the 
bottom  into  the  fan-shaped  overhang  of  the  Pole 
Star's  stern. 

Stirling  worked  his  way  aft  to  the  thrust  bearings, 
which  were  three  in  number.  Here  the  pit  was  dark 


216  THE  ICE  PILOT 

and  damp,  and  he  turned  and  glanced  forward.  The 
faint  light  which  marked  the  outlines  of  the  shaft 
alley  grew  stronger  as  he  waited. 

A  burly  form  moved  within  the  gloom,  then  an- 
other man  joined  the  first  Russian.  Hammer  blows 
sounded,  and  the  light  vanished  as  if  a  shade  had  been 
drawn.  Stirling,  with  every  sense  alert,  guessed 
the  reason  for  the  darkness.  The  revolutionists  in 
the  engine  room  had  brought  aft  a  number  of  sheets 
of  boiler  plate,  and  these  they  had  erected  about 
the  tail  shaft  where  it  entered  the  engine  room. 

A  grim  smile  creased  Stirling's  lips  as  he  waited. 
The  way  now  was  barred  by  three-eighth-inch  iron; 
he  was  a  prisoner  in  the  pit. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE    THIRD    DOOR 

A  FA  I  NT  sound  from  above  echoed  throughout 
the  alleyway,  and  Stirling  turned  his  head, 
listening  with  every  sense  alert.     The  sound 
was   repeated,   then   footfalls   grated   on   the   deck 
planks.     The  clank  of  the  engines  and  the  whirling 
shaft  drowned  out  further  steps  in  the  cabin. 

Stirling  reached  toward  the  thrust  bearings,  meas- 
ured the  distance,  and  thought  deeply.  He  was 
directly  beneath  the  alleyway  which  extended  from 
the  staterooms  to  the  after  companion — the  girl  and 
Slim,  the  Frisco  dock  rat,  were  above  him. 

He  touched  the  planks,  feeling  the  seams  between 
the  inch-thick  decking.  He  traced  these  seams  and 
found  that  they  ended  in  a  coaming  at  each  side  of 
the  shaft  alley.  These  were  secured  to  the  deck 
beams  by  screws  which  in  turn  were  covered  by  tree- 
nails. The  barrier  seemed  impassable. 

The  throbbing  of  the  screw,  driven  to  its  limit, 
had  a  lulling  effect  upon  Stirling,  who  sank  to  his 
knees  and  crawled  along  the  alleyway  until  his  fingers 
touched  a  thrust  block;  sitting  on  this  he  dropped  his 
head  into  his  greasy  hands  and  thought,  his  brain 
swirling  in  the  maze  of  doubt  and  unreality. 

217 


2i8  THE  ICE  PILOT 

He  had  no  tool  with  which  he  could  cut  his  way 
upward,  and  his  problem  was  to  get  in  communica- 
tion with  the  girl  so  that  a  passage  could  be  bored 
through  the  deck  planks. 

The  polished  shaft  at  his  side  attracted  his  atten- 
tion and  he  felt  of  it,  counting  the  revolutions.  They 
were  slightly  faster  than  the  beat  of  his  pulse.  The 
power  of  a  thousand  horses  was  there  in  that  rod  of 
steel,  and  he  wondered  vaguely  if  there  was  any 
way  to  turn  it  to  account. 

The  covers  for  the  thrust  blocks  and  shaft  bearings 
were  firmly  bolted  down.  He  groped  about  and 
searched  every  corner  of  the  alleyway,  finding  an 
inch  bolt  and  a  battered  oil  can.  These  he  placed 
by  the  thrust  block  and  continued  the  search. 

A  faint  light  from  the  engine  room  illuminated  the 
forward  end  of  the  shaft  alley,  and  he  crawled  to  this 
opening  and  peered  through.  The  low-pressure 
cylinder  and  the  engine  frame  prevented  further 
scrutiny,  but  the  shadows  that  moved  across  the 
gratings  above  the  cylinder  marked  the  presence  of 
the  revolutionists.  One,  perhaps,  was  on  guard. 

Stirling  thrust  his  fingers  through  the  plate  which 
had  been  nailed  to  prevent  his  escape.  Straining, 
he  saw  that  be  could  move  the  lower  section  of  iron 
sheeting.  An  object  under  the  after  bearing  of  the 
engine  had  attracted  his  attention — a  long  strip  of 
leather  belting  coated  with  grease  and  oil. 

He  moved  the  plate,  and  waited;  then  he  crawled 
halfway  through  the  opening  and  secured  the  belt, 


THE  THIRD  DOOR  219 

Backing  carefully,  he  worked  his  way  aft  to  the 
thrust  block. 

He  now  had  a  belt  and  a  bolt  and  with  these  crude 
tools  he  intended  boring  through  the  planks  over  his 
head.  The  task  was  a  painful  one.  He  would  have 
to  arrange  the  belt  so  that  it  would  run  under 
the  shaft  and  over  the  bolt,  which  was  turned  by  the 
shaft's  power.  Its  corners  might  work  through 
the  plank. 

He  found  that  the  bolt  was  too  small  in  diameter 
to  secure  any  result,  and  that  the  belt  slipped  and 
would  not  turn  the  shank.  He  laid  the  bolt  down 
and  picked  up  the  oil  can,  whose  shape  suggested 
the  solution  of  the  problem. 

Removing  the  oil  spout  by  unscrewing  it  from 
the  top  of  the  can,  he  inserted  the  bolt  in  its  place. 
The  can  turned  freely  with  the  bolt  as  an  axle. 

Stirling  smiled  through  the  grime  upon  his  features. 
His  mind  had  evolved  a  saw  of  the  superior  order, 
power  driven  and  bound  to  be  effective.  He  waited 
before  he  went  on  with  the  experiment. 

The  seething  of  the  water  told  him  that  they  were 
still  hurtling  through  the  lane  of  ice,  and  floes  grated 
alongside.  A  shout  echoed  backward  from  the 
engine  room,  and  the  clank  of  steam-driven  rods 
rose  to  a  crescendo  of  effort.  The  Pole  Star  was 
striking  out  to  open  sea  and  the  unknown  waters 
to  the  north  and  east  of  Point  Barrow. 

The  cutter  cruiser  had  been  distanced,  and  the 
Bear  was  a  slow  third  in  the  chase.  There  was  no 


220  THE  ICE  PILOT 

way  to  tell  where  the  pursuit  would  lead.  Stirling 
thought  dimly  of  the  northeast  passage  and  the 
way  to  Baffin  Bay.  Only  madmen  could  effect 
such  an  enterprise. 

Steps  sounded  above  as  Stirling  toyed  with  the 
can,  and  he  heard  them  going  aft.  Others  followed; 
these  were  lighter.  There  came  then  the  faint 
echo  of  a  scuffle  and  the  low  cry  of  a  woman,  followed 
by  a  man's  rude  laugh  as  the  light  steps  ran  forward 
and  a  door  slammed. 

Stirling  constructed  the  scene  in  his  mind:  The 
dock  rat  had  seized  the  girl  and  embraced  her,  and 
she  had  torn  herself  from  his  grasp.  The  slamming 
door  told  that  she  had  barricaded  herself  in  the  cabin. 
It  was  time  to  interfere.  The  inch-thick  planks 
overhead  formed  the  only  obstruction,  and  he  felt 
of  them,  then  reached  for  the  oil  can. 

The  belt  tightened  over  the  polished  shaft  and  over 
the  rim  of  the  can,  which  was  at  least  three  inches  in 
diameter.  The  bolt  acted  as  a  rod,  and  the  cutting 
edge  as  it  touched  the  plank  ground  through  for  a 
quarter  inch  and  then  refused  to  work  deeper. 

Stirling  saw  the  reason  for  this:  The  copper  of  the 
can  had  no  abrasive  edge.  He  lowered  the  can, 
drew  out  his  revolver,  and  started  nicking  the 
metal.  Each  blow  sounded  like  a  hammer  stroke 
in  his  straining  ears,  and  he  feared  to  dent  the 
bottom  of  the  can  so  freely  that  it  could  not  be 
straightened.  He  pocketed  the  revolver  and  felt 
the  edge.  It  was  rough,  at  any  rate. 


THE  THIRD  DOOR  221 

The  improvised  saw  now  cut  into  the  overhead 
plank  as  he  pressed  the  bolt  upward  with  straining 
arms.  The  belt  slipped  at  times,  but  he  waited  and 
tried  anew.  The  power  which  was  in  the  tail  shaft 
of  the  engines  was  sufficient  for  a  thousand  saws. 

Dust  and  splinters  dropped  down  upon  his  tense 
face,  but  he  held  on  grimly  with  one  determination 
mastering  his  thoughts :  The  girl  was  in  danger.  She 
was  barricaded  in  her  stateroom,  and  the  dock  rat 
was  probably  sitting  by  the  great  table  in  the  main 
cabin — with  a  vast  reservoir  of  gin  and  whisky  from 
which  to  draw. 

Stirling  felt  the  edge  of  the  can  bite  through  the 
plank  in  one  place.  He  lowered  it  and  examined  the 
opening.  The  belt  had  stretched  under  the  strain 
and  had  permitted  a  cut  of  seven  or  eight  inches  in 
length. 

Crossing  the  belt,  Stirling  started  a  second  cut  at 
a  right  angle  to  the  first,  and  worked  on  with  his 
arms  aching  and  growing  numb  from  the  strained 
position.  The  oil  in  the  can  had  served  for  lubrica- 
tion to  the  bolt,  but  when  this  oil  dried,  the  bolt 
squeaked,  and  the  can  became  hot. 

He  lowered  it  from  the  cut  in  the  deck  plank  and 
the  smell  of  hot  oil  in  the  shaft  bearings  gave  him  an 
idea.  There  was  enough  grease  and  oil  packed  with 
waste  there  to  keep  the  bearings  cool.  He  lifted  a 
cover  and  dug  out  a  handful  of  dripping  packing, 
which  he  squeezed  into  the  can.  The  bolt  was  now 
lubricated. 


222  THE  ICE  PILOT 

Though  working  in  almost  total  darkness,  he  made 
rapid  progress,  and  still  no  sound  came  from  above. 
The  dock  rat  probably  was  sleeping  across  the  table; 
the  girl  had  not  moved  in  her  cabin. 

The  first  faint  light  which  streamed  through  the 
crack  he  made  steeled  Stirling  to  renewed  efforts. 
He  enlarged  the  opening  and  stood  erect. 

The  view  was  a  limited  one  of  an  ornate  ceiling 
stamped  here  and  there  with  fresco  and  border 
designs.  In  the  centre  of  this  ceiling  gleamed  the 
frosty  light  from  an  electric  dome.  Three  lamps 
burned,  despite  the  fact  that  a  soft  glow  was  filling 
the  splendid  cabin.  This  glow  came  from  the  break- 
ing dawn  which  made  rosy  the  deck  light  and  cabin 
companion. 

Stirling  removed  his  eye  from  the  crack  and  felt 
the  grooves  he  had  cut  in  the  planking.  They  were 
almost  sufficient  for  his  purpose.  He  trimmed  a 
corner  with  his  improvised  saw,  ran  the  saw  through 
a  deep  cut  till  it  severed  the  plank's  edge,  then 
pressed  firmly  upward.  The  trapdoor  he  had  cut 
was  held  by  only  a  few  splinters. 

He  waited  and  reviewed  his  position.  The  revo- 
lutionists were  busy  with  the  engines  and  the 
furnaces,  and  their  shouts  came  aft  with  muffled 
curses.  The  clang  of  a  bell  told  that  the  leader  had 
urged  more  steam,  and  the  ship  was  hurtling  through 
a  sea  free  from  ice.  Stirling  could  hear  no  grating 
along  the  run. 

He  worked  forward,  guiding  himself  by  the  touch 


THE  THIRD  DOOR  223 

of  the  polished  tail  shaft.  The  barricade  of  iron 
plates  was  an  effective  barrier  to  a  sudden  rush. 
There  was  scant  danger  from  the  Russians.  The 
sentry  they  had  placed  on  guard  stood  high  on  the 
gratings  overlooking  the  opening  to  the  shaft  alley. 
Stirling  peered  through  a  crack  in  the  plates  and 
watched  him.  He  was  looking  intently  at  the  two 
intermediate  cylinders. 

Working  aft  with  careful  steps,  Stirling  reached 
his  trapdoor  and  listened.  A  sound  of  deep  breath- 
ing came  to  him.  Slim,  the  dock  rat,  was  directly 
above,  where  he  choked  now  and  then,  and  his  arms 
moved  over  the  racks  of  the  table.  Then  he  was 
still — save  for  the  drunken  breathing  which  sub- 
sided almost  to  nothingness. 

Stirling  braced  his  shoulders  against  the  planks, 
pressed  his  feet  upon  the  shaft  bearing,  and  strained 
with  every  muscle.  A  splintering  noise  sounded.  A 
second  thrust  tore  loose  the  last  of  the  planks.  They 
showered  about  him  as  he  reached  upward,  rested 
his  elbows  on  the  edge,  and  sprang  to  the  deck  of 
the  cabin. 

Slim  raised  an  arm,  fell  forward,  lifted  his  chin, 
and  turned  it  in  a  slow  arc.  His  eyes  blinked  as 
Stirling  lunged  for  him  with  a  bearlike  glide  which 
was  not  to  be  denied.  Strong  fingers  clasped  about 
the  dock  rat's  throat;  he  was  lifted  from  his  chair 
and  hurled  across  the  floor  of  the  cabin.  Stirling 
was  after  him  with  a  quick  stride. 

The  struggle  which  followed  was  terrible  in  its 


224  THE  ICE  PILOT 

intensity.  Stirling  had  the  strength  given  to  out- 
door men ;  he  was  unskilled,  however,  and  faint  from 
loss  of  sleep  and  food.  Slim  had  learned  boxing 
and  wrestling  along  the  San  Francisco  water  front. 
He  squirmed  to  his  knees,  twisted  from  Stirling's 
grip,  and  lowered  his  head  for  a  rush.  Stirling  met 
this  attack  with  a  savage  reaching  of  arms  and  a 
grunt  as  Slim  uppercut  with  vicious  strength.  They 
fell  into  a  clinch,  they  swayed  and  staggered  about 
the  cabin,  overturning  chairs  and  stools. 

Stirling's  clean  living  began  to  tell  as  the  Ice  Pilot 
recovered  his  wits  and  became  more  careful.  Lung- 
ing blows  straightened  and  became  jabs,  hugs  gave 
place  to  standing  exchange  of  blows.  The  dock  rat 
leered  from  puffed  eyes  and  searched  about  for  a 
weapon.  A  brass  bomb  gun  and  a  Remington  rifle 
lay  across  the  table.  He  dodged  and  reached  for 
the  bomb  gun,  his  fingers  closing  over  the  barrel, 
when  Stirling  leaped  the  distance  and  wound  his 
arms  about  Slim's  waist. 

The  dock  rat,  catapulted  through  the  air,  crashed 
against  the  sheathing  of  the  starboard  wall.  He 
managed  to  rise,  but  Stirling  was  over  the  planks 
and  upon  him  with  a  vicious  outthrust  of  his  jaw. 
The  madness  of  the  struggle  had  completely  mastered 
the  Ice  Pilot,  who  fought  furiously. 

Soon  Slim  lay  still.  Stirling,  looking  about  for  a 
cord  or  line,  saw  a  tassel  protruding  from  a  curtain 
which  covered  the  alleyway  leading  aft.  Jerking 
this  loose,  he  lunged  swiftly  to  Slim's  side,  drew 


THE  THIRD  DOOR  225 

his  arms  behind  him,  and  completed  a  sailor's  job 
of  tying  and  splicing  from  which  no  man  could  escape. 

The  dock  rat  opened  one  eye  and  moaned.  Stir- 
ling drew  back  and  glanced  sternly  at  him,  his  bulk 
seeming  to  fill  the  cabin. 

Slim  closed  his  eyes  and  moaned  for  a  second 
time.  "  Let  me  loose,"  he  managed  to  say. 

"Stay  there!"  Stirling  said  with  a  slow  glance 
around. 

The  curtain  attracted  his  attention.  It  had  been 
partly  wrenched  from  its  pole  by  the  drawing  away 
of  the  cord.  Beyond  it  lay  the  alleyway  and  the 
cabins  of  the  after  part  of  the  ship.  The  girl's  cabin 
was  one  of  four. 

"Which  stateroom  is  the  girl  in?"  he  asked,  lean- 
ing over  Slim. 

The  sailor  squirmed  and  dragged  at  his  arms  where 
they  were  bound,  rolled  over,  and  stared  upward 
at  the  deck.  A  light  streamed  down  from  the  bar- 
ricaded companion,  a  light  which  heralded  the  rising 
of  the  sun.  Stirling  followed  the  dock  rat's  glance 
and  studied  the  shadow,  then  wheeled  swiftly  and 
saw  a  tiny  ship's  clock  set  in  the  wall.  A  hasty  cal- 
culation of  time  and  shadow  showed  him  that  the 
Pole  Star  was  driving  east  by  true  reckoning  and 
north  by  compass.  The  variation  was  all  of  ninety 
degrees. 

He  listened  to  the  progress  of  the  ship  as  he  waited 
for  the  dock  rat  to  answer  his  question.  The  throb- 
bing of  the  screw  and  the  swift  rush  of  water  under 


226  THE  ICE  PILOT 

the  counter  showed  that  the  revolutionists  were  still 
extending  their  efforts.  The  great  bight  of  sea  be- 
yond Point  Barrow  and  off  the  mouth  of  the  Mack- 
enzie River  was  being  crossed.  The  land  ahead  would 
be  unknown  territory,  filled  with  danger  and  starva- 
tion. 

Weakly  Stirling  turned;  all  the  fight  seemed  to 
have  left  him,  and  he  swayed  as  he  glanced  down- 
ward. The  sailor  had  closed  his  lips  in  a  hard  line, 
and  there  was  malice  and  calculation  in  his  sharp, 
darting  glances  about  the  cabin. 

Stirling  shrugged  his  shoulders,  dropped  on  one 
knee,  and  felt  the  cord.  It  was  drawn  sufficiently 
tight.  Rising  slowly,  the  Ice  Pilot  breathed  deeply, 
feeling  the  aching  muscles  of  his  chest  as  they  ex- 
panded; then  he  set  in  order  the  chairs  and  stools 
of  the  cabin  and  lifted  the  rifle  until  it  swung  in  a 
natural  manner  under  his  right  armpit. 

"Stay  right  there!"  he  commanded  as  he  glanced 
toward  the  sailor.  He  was  surprised  at  the  sound 
of  his  own  voice,  unnatural  and  falsely  tuned. 

Shaking  his  head  with  weariness,  he  advanced 
to  the  curtain,  brushed  it  aside  with  his  left  hand, 
and  strode  down  the  alleyway,  where  four  doors 
offered  themselves.  Each  was  closed.  He  knocked 
at  the  first,  but  there  was  no  answer;  it  was  the  same 
with  the  second. 

The  third  door  proved  to  be  that  of  the  girl's  room. 
He  heard  her  stirring  inside  as  he  repeated  the  knock, 
then  listened  with  bent  head.  He  felt  the  room  was 


THE  THIRD  DOOR  227 

sacred — he  had  known  so  little  of  women  that  they 
all  were  holy  to  him,  and  he  told  himself  that  he  was 
committing  a  sacrilege. 

He  tapped  again — this  time  lightly.  A  poignant 
sobbing  greeted  his  ears. 

He  bent  his  head  closer  and  said:  "It's  me.  Don't 
be  afraid.  I'm  Stirling — the  Ice  Pilot.  I'm  the  one 
who  was  in  the  crow's-nest." 

He  strained  his  ears,  and  the  sobbing  ceased. 
A  hand  was  on  the  latch;  the  door  started  to  slide 
open. 

"It's  me,"  he  repeated  as  the  hand  that  pressed 
the  door  hesitated.  "I'm  all  right,"  he  added,  with 
tired  assurance.  "I'm  armed,  and  that  sailor  is 
taken  care  of — the  one  who  insulted  you." 

The  door  slid  open  swiftly,  and  the  girl  stood 
framed  in  the  aperture.  Her  hair  was  down  her 
back,  her  wide  eyes  swollen  from  tears  and  distress. 

He  rested  the  rifle  against  his  hip.  "Are  you  all 
right?"  he  asked,  sincerely.  "Are  you?" 

"Yes — now,  I  am."  The  glance  that  lifted  to 
his  own  was  frank  and  shimmering  with  amazement. 
Stirling  glanced  over  her  shoulder  full  into  a  long 
cheval  mirror,  and  recoiled  as  he  looked  at  his 
own  reflection.  The  oil  and  grease  of  the  shaft 
alley,  the  week-old  stubble  of  beard,  the  wan,  red- 
rimmed  eyes  which  shone  from  hollow  sockets — these 
made  a  picture  of  desperate  adventure. 

"You'll  have  to  excuse  me,"  he  said.  "I  didn't 
know  I  looked  like  this." 


228  THE  ICE  PILOT 

The  girl  smiled  and  extended  her  hand.  "You 
came  to  me,"  she  said,  bravely.  "That's  what  I 
wanted/' 

Stirling  nodded  and  rubbed  his  chin  with  his  palm, 
then  turned  and  stared  toward  the  curtain.  Slim 
had  rolled  over  and  was  hammering  the  cabin  deck 
with  his  heels  in  an  endeavour  to  escape  the  bonds 
around  his  wrists  and  elbows. 

"I  found  him,"  said  Stirling.  "What  do  you  say 
if  we  go  in  there — Miss — Miss " 

"Miss  Marr — Helen  Marr,"  she  said,  quickly,  as 
she  came  gliding  out  of  the  door.  "You  see,"  she 
added,  "I'm  not  a  bit  frightened — at  you!" 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

TO    SEE    IT  THROUGH 

ROUGH-GARBED  and  soiled  from  his  ef- 
forts, Stirling  led  the  way  aft  to  the  large 
cabin  of  the  Pole  Star,  then  turned  and  held 
the  curtain  back  for  Helen  Marr.  He  bowed  as  she 
passed  through  and  stood  staring  at  the  prone  form 
of  the  Frisco  dock  rat. 

"I'll  attend  to  him,  miss,"  declared  Stirling. 
"Did  he  insult  you?" 

The  girl  flushed  slightly,  but  there  was  an  assur- 
ance in  her  manner  that  bespoke  the  daughter  of  the 
sea.  She  braced  her  slight  form  by  leaning  against 
the  table  and  turned  to  the  Ice  Pilot.  "No;  he 
didn't  insult  me,"  she  said.  "He  couldn't.  But 
he  is  not  a  gentleman  and  never  can  be  one." 

Stirling  stepped  over  the  deck  and  reached  down- 
ward, coiled  his  arms  about  Slim,  and  raised  him 
from  the  planks. 

" Hold  the  curtain,"  he  said,  softly.  "  I'll  put  this 
fellow  out  of  harm's  way.  There's  a  cabin  just  made 
for  him,  where  we  can  feed  him  and  watch  him." 

Helen  Marr  stared  at  Stirling  as  he  shifted  his 
burden,  smiled  slowly  through  the  grime  of  his  lips, 
and  staggered  with  Slim  through  the  curtain  and 

229 


230  THE  ICE  PILOT 

down  the  alleyway  to  the  cabin  where  Whitehouse 
and  Marr  had  kept  him  prisoner. 

He  was  back  in  three  minutes  with  a  key  held 
between  his  fingers.  "You  take  this,"  he  said  with 
concern.  "Take  it  and  keep  it.  I'm  going  to  look 
around  and  find  some  water  and  a  razor.  I  expect 
we're  going  to  be  together  for  some  time,  as  the 
revolutionists  are  heading  east.  I  don't  want  to 
frighten  you  with  my  appearance,  Miss  Marr." 

"There's  running  water  and  razors  in  uncle's 
cabin." 

Stirling  stiffened  and  passed  his  hand  over  the 
stubble  of  his  cheeks,  removing  his  cap  as  he  asked, 
"So  he  was  your  uncle?" 

"Yes;  Mr.  Marr  was  my  uncle.  He  brought  me 
along  on  this  trip  because  there  was  nobody  to  look 
after  me  ashore.  I  was  at  boarding  school  in  Con- 
cord when  he  came  for  me." 

Stirling  glanced  at  the  girl  with  open  sympathy, 
and  she  returned  his  look,  then  blushed  slightly, 
and  moved  away  from  the  table.  The  key  he  had 
given  her  dropped  to  the  deck.  She  recovered  it 
and  brushed  back  her  hair  as  she  rose. 

"I'm  sorry  he  died,"  Stirling  managed  to  say. 
"I'm  sorry.  But  I  don't  think  he  was  doing  right 
in  bringing  you  North,  and  I  don't  think  the  seal 
raid  was  right.  You  see  I'm  plain-spoken.  I'm 
not  used  to  young  ladies." 

A  laugh  echoed  through  the  cabin.  "You're  a 
sight !"  said  Helen  Marr.  "We'll  get  along.  I  don't 


TO  SEE  IT  THROUGH  231 

fear  anything  at  all  now.  Those  awful  Russians 
are  afraid  of  you." 

Stirling  glanced  at  the  barricaded  deck  light,  and 
listened  to  the  swift  rush  of  the  ship  through  the 
smooth  sea.  A  slight  chill  was  in  the  air,  which 
spoke  of  ice  fields  to  the  north  and  east. 

He  dropped  his  glance  and  swept  the  cabin.  The 
bomb  gun  on  the  table  was  a  weapon  in  a  thousand, 
and  with  it  it  would  be  possible  to  hold  the  cabin 
against  a  large  number  of  men. 

"The  thing  we  have  to  find  out,"  he  said,  "is 
how  to  stop  the  ship  before  we  go  too  far.  We're 
off  Herschel  Island  now.  Another  day's  mad 
steaming  will  wreck  us  sure.  I  don't  want  to  see 
you  wrecked." 

The  girl  pointed  toward  an  after  doorway.  "That's 
uncle's  cabin,"  she  said.  "Go  shave  and  fix  your- 
self. Then  we'll  talk  about  things.  I  don't  think 
being  wrecked  is  so  terrible." 

Stirling  shook  his  head  and  moved  toward  the 
cabin.  He  opened  the  door,  turned,  and  glanced 
backward,  then  went  inside  with  the  girl's  face 
stamped  upon  his  memory.  She  was  full  of  fire  and 
youth,  the  voyage  of  the  Pole  Star  had  been  an  ad- 
venture for  her.  The  death  of  Marr  had  not  sad- 
dened her.  He  found  soap  and  a  razor  resting  be- 
hind the  washstand,  and  with  these  started  to  make 
himself  presentable. 

Strength  and  youth  came  through  his  features  as 
he  scraped  and  hacked;  simple  in  all  his  motions, 


232  THE  ICE  PILOT 

he  found  himself  for  the  first  time  in  a  great  hurry. 
The  girl  had  appealed  with  elfin  charm,  though  he 
knew  no  more  of  women  than  landsmen  know  of  the 
mysteries  of  the  sea. 

After  he  had  finished  shaving,  a  good  wash  in  cold 
water,  a  swift  parting  of  his  hair,  and  a  borrowed 
necktie  from  Marr's  collection,  caused  him  to  smile 
at  his  reflection  in  the  glass.  He  stood  the  proper 
figure  of  a  man — four  square  to  wind,  weather, 
adversity,  or  the  revolutionists. 

The  situation  was  desperate  enough  to  call  for  all 
the  strength  of  Stirling's  mind  and  muscle.  The 
ship  was  heading  due  east  by  the  meridian,  or  north 
by  magnetic  compass,  and  the  true  Pole  was  being 
thrown  over  the  ship's  port  waist  like  a  sinister 
shadow.  Ahead  lay  the  Magnetic  Pole  and  the  land 
where  Franklin  and  his  brave  men  had  perished  in 
the  search  for  the  northwest  passage. 

Stirling  looked  from  the  mirror  to  the  open  port- 
hole of  the  cabin,  and  saw  the  low-lying  land  which 
marked  the  American  continent.  The  water  was 
muddy  and  filled  with  driftwood,  which  indicated 
that  Herschel  Island  and  the  mouth  of  the  Mackenzie 
River  were  being  passed. 

"Our  last  wintering  place,"  he  said,  with  his  face 
pressed  to  the  porthole.  "Yonder  she  is.  There's 
scant  chance  from  now  on." 

He  turned  and  glanced  about  the  cabin.  A  tell- 
tale compass  over  a  brass-bound  bunk  showed  that 
the  course  read  north.  It  changed  a  point  as  the 


TO  SEE  IT  THROUGH  233 

Pole  Star  swung  and  dashed  by  a  field  of  ancient  ice. 
Then  the  ship  steadied,  the  engines  clanked,  and 
steps  sounded  overhead.  The  revolutionists  had 
gathered  for  a  consultation. 

Stirling  opened  the  door  of  the  cabin,  stepped  out, 
and  faced  Helen  Marr  who  stood  by  the  baby-grand 
piano  which  was  lashed  to  the  after  part  of  the  bulk- 
head. 

"We're  off  Herschel  Island,"  he  said,  running 
his  fingers  over  his  face  in  anxiety.  "I'm  sorry  for 
your  sake.  There  are  no  winter  quarters  beyond 
the  Island  that  I  know  of;  it's  all  lowland  and  dan- 
gerous anchorage.  We're  in  for  it!" 

The  girl  inclined  her  head  and  listened,  then 
pointed  upward.  A  wan,  tired  smile,  that  threw 
tiny  wrinkles  in  the  corners  of  her  mouth,  held 
Stirling's  eyes.  She  seemed  suddenly  older  to  him, 
and  he  wondered  at  this  change  as  he  waited  for  her 
to  speak. 

"They  are  above,"  she  said  at  last.  "Do  you 
think  they  are  plotting  to  capture  you?"  Her  voice 
had  changed,  and  Stirling  detected  a  note  of  con- 
cern. He  looked  up  and  caught  her  glance  full  upon 
his  own.  She  bit  her  lip  and  flushed. 

He  tried  to  stammer  an  answer,  but  none  came  that 
fitted  the  question.  A  gulf  had  suddenly  opened 
between  them,  and  her  eyes  no  longer  held  the 
shimmer  they  had  once  contained.  She  had  stared 
at  him  as  if  he  had  been  a  ghost  or  spectre  from 
another  world,  her  manner  suddenly  grown  cold. 


234  THE  ICE  PILOT 

"What  did  I  do?"  he  exclaimed.  "Why  do  you 
look  at  me  that  way?" 

"Because — why,  because  I  thought  you  were  an 
old  man.  You're  not!" 

Stirling  straightened,  and  he  felt  his  heart  throb- 
bing. "I'm  forty-six,"  he  said.  "That's  old,  isn't 
it?" 

The  girl's  face  dimpled;  the  lines  vanished  from 
her  lips  and  left  her  openly  frank  and  childish  look- 
ing. "Forty-six?" 

"Going  on  forty-seven." 

"That  isn't  old.  You  look  so  different  with  a 
shave  and  a — wash.  I'm  going  to  make  you  promise 
one  thing." 

Stirling  was  ready  to  promise  any  number  of 
things.  "What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"That  from  now  on  you  shave  every  day,  and 
from  now  on  we're — friends." 

"I'll  promise  that!"  said  Stirling,  heartily.  "We 
two  are  going  to  see  this  thing  through — as  friends. 
You  can  trust  me!  We'll  stand  guard — watch 
and  watch." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

IN    SWIFT    SALUTE 

YOU'RE  not  going  to  kill  anybody?"     Helen 
Marr  asked,  after  a  moment's  pause. 
"Not  unless  they  try  to  harm  you,"  Stir- 
ling replied. 

The  girl  raised  her  chin  and  thrust  out  her  right 
hand.  "I  was  always  a  wild  creature,"  she  said. 
"  Father  died  soon  after  I  was  born,  and  mother  let  me 
run  wild  in  Concord.  Then  uncle  came  from  across 
the  sea.  He  always  liked  me;  once  he  took  me  to 
England  on  a  voyage.  It  was  a  Boston  ship  he 
owned  an  interest  in.  I  can  reef  and  steer.  I  had  a 
sloop  in  Maine — all  one  summer." 

"Can  you  handle  a  rifle?" 

"Yes.    Only  I  don't  want  to  kill  anybody." 

Stirling  stepped  to  a  gun  rack  on  the  starboard 
side  of  the  cabin,  went  over  the  rifles  racked  there, 
and  picked  out  a  light  gun  which  Marr  had  brought 
North  for  shooting  seals. 

"We'll  load  this,"  he  said,  laying  it  across  the 
table.  "It's  yours  in  case  of  trouble.  The  revolu- 
tionists are  getting  into  deep  ice  and  the  time  is 
coming  when  they  will  call  on  me.  I  may  have  to 

take  command  of  the  ship.    Otherwise " 

235 


236  THE  ICE  PILOT 

His  pause  was  suggestive.  Helen  Marr  stared 
out  through  the  nearest  porthole,  then  turned  with 
a  pucker  showing  at  the  corner  of  her  mouth.  "What 
were  you  going  to  say?"  she  asked. 

"Otherwise  we  will  be  cast  away  in  the  land  that 
Heaven  forgot.  There  is  nothing  up  here  but  death 
and  starvation.  There  is  no  food  or  shelter;  there  is 
only  cold  and  ice  and  desolation.  It  is  almost  all 
unexplored.  Coronation  Gulf,  where  we  are  head- 
ing, leads  to  Victoria  Strait  and  Lancaster  Sound. 
The  passage  was  never  made." 

"But  the  Russians  may  make  it.  Isn't  the  season 
an  open  one?" 

"So  open  that  I  fear  we  will  go  too  far  to  turn 
back.  There's  coal  enough  aboard  to  take  us  to 
Baffin  Bay." 

"Uncle  has  been  there." 

"But  not  from  this  side  of  the  world."  Stirling 
glanced  about  the  cabin  and  then  stepped  over  to 
an  ornate  bookcase  beneath  which  was  a  drawer 
filled  with  maps. 

He  unrolled  a  map  and  spread  it  across  the  table. 
"Come  here,"  he  said,  nodding  to  the  girl.  "I'll 
show  you  where  we  are  and  where  we're  heading." 

The  girl  stepped  close  to  his  side  and  leaned  over 
the  chart,  following  his  pointing  finger  as  he  traced 
a  course  from  Point  Barrow  to  the  mouth  of  the 
Mackenzie  River.  "From  there,"  he  said,  "we 
may  strike  two  ways.  The  most  likely  course  is 
through  Coronation  Gulf,  and  then  by  Boothia  Gulf, 


IN  SWIFT  SALUTE  237 

but  there's  another  route  to  the  eastward.  It  leads 
west  by  the  compass  and  around  this  land."  Stir- 
ling pressed  his  thumb  on  a  maze  of  inlets  and 
narrow  straits.  "If  the  revolutionists  try  that 
course  we're  cast  away  in  the  polar  pack.  It'll  be 
all  up  with  you  and  me." 

The  girl  drew  back  the  chart  and  raised  her  finger 
to  her  lips,  almost  pouting  as  she  asked:  "Are  you 
afraid?" 

Stirling  stammered  and  rolled  up  the  chart  with  a 
swift  motion  of  his  right  palm.  "Not  exactly 
afraid,"  he  said;  "but  with  the  crew  on  deck  that 
we  have,  there  is  every  chance  of  getting  nipped." 

"Nipped?" 

"Yes!  Caught  in  the  ice  and  crushed.  Many 
ships  have  had  that  happen.  I  remember  the 
Beluga  and  the  Prince  Charles  and  the  schooner  Rosy 
Enders.  They  all  were  nipped  to  the  eastward  of  Her- 
schel  Island.  We're  in  the  same  waters." 

"But  wouldn't  it  be  splendid  if  the  Russians  got 
through  to  Baffin  Bay?  Just  think  what  the  world 
would  say.  The  Northwest  Passage!" 

"The  Northeast,"  corrected  Stirling,  with  a  faint 
smile. 

"Isn't  there  a  big  reward  for  going  around  the 
American  Continent?" 

"There  was;  I  don't  know  about  it  now.  The 
Norwegians  did  it  in  a  little  ship,  but  it  took  them 
years." 

The  girl  moved  across  the  cabin  and  pressed  her 


238  THE  ICE  PILOT 

face  to  the  nearest  porthole,  then  turned  and  found 
Stirling's  eyes  fastened  upon  her. 

"I  see  lots  of  ice,"  she  said,  naively.  "There's 
ice  everywhere." 

"  Except  ahead.  We're  going  down  a  lane  of  open 
water  between  the  floes  and  the  shore.  Cape 
Bathurst  should  soon  be  sighted." 

The  girl  turned  her  head  and  glanced  through  the 
porthole.  "  I  see  land!"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  quiver 
in  her  voice.  "It  doesn't  look  so  terrible.  There're 
green  moss  and  trees — I  think  they  are  trees." 

"Arctic  pines,"  Stirling  said.  "It's  No  Man's 
Land  on  this  side  of  the  world.  You  stand  watch 
with  that  Remington  and  I'll  go  look  that  sailor 
over.  He  must  be  hungry." 

Stirling  moved  toward  the  curtain  as  the  girl 
turned  away  from  the  open  porthole  and  stepped 
to  the  table  where  the  rifle  lay.  She  lifted  it,  and 
frowned  in  perplexity  as  her  fingers  toyed  with 
the  trigger  guard  and  cocking  mechanism. 

Suddenly  she  wheeled  and  laid  down  the  rifle.  "  I 
couldn't  shoot  anybody,"  she  said,  staring  across  the 
cabin.  "Nobody  is  going  to  bother  us,  now." 

"I'm  not  so  sure,  Miss  Marr.  There's  a  time 
coming  when  the  revolutionists  will  be  in  distress. 
Then  there's  Slim  to  reckon  with.  He  might  escape 
while  I'm  sleeping.  You  know  I  haven't  slept  for 
days — just  a  nap  now  and  then  in  the  crow's-nest  and 
the  shaft  alley." 

Stirling  hurried  to  the  dock  rat's  cabin  and  pressed 


IN  SWIFT  SALUTE  239 

open  the  door  after  inserting  the  key  in  the  lock. 
Slim  sat  up  and  twisted  his  body. 

"Nice  way  you've  left  me,"  he  said,  bitterly. 

Stirling  examined  the  bonds  and  smiled  grimly, 
but  he  did  not  answer  the  sailor.  He  glanced  about 
the  cabin,  saw  that  the  porthole  was  fastened  se- 
curely, then  hurried  back  to  the  girl. 

"Please  get  biscuits  and  water,"  he  said.  "That 
sailor  is  doing  fine.  If  he  doesn't  keep  it  up  I'll 
turn  him  over  to  the  revolutionists." 

"He  was  all  right  until  after  uncle  died,"  Helen 
said.  "Then  he  started  drinking  and  saying  things 
to  me.  I  wasn't  afraid  of  him,  only— 

"Only,"  interrupted  Stirling,  "you  should  have 
kept  that  little  revolver.  I  appreciated  it,  but  you 
needed  it  worse  than  I  did.  Here  it  is." 

Stirling  dropped  his  hand  into  his  pocket  and 
brought  out  the  little  silver-plated  gun.  "Take  it, 
please,"  he  said,  "and — will  you  get  me  some  biscuits 
and  water?  I'll  feed  the  sailor." 

The  girl  hurried  through  an  after  doorway, 
opened  some  tins  in  a  small  pantry,  and  returned 
with  a  tray  of  crackers.  She  set  these  on  the  table, 
and  drew  a  pitcher  of  water  from  the  tap  in  the 
cabin. 

Stirling  studied  her  motions,  and  dreamed  of  a 
fairy  or  an  elf.  He  was  staring  at  the  steps  which 
led  to  the  cabin  companion  as  she  offered  him  the 
pitcher  of  water.  His  eyes  dropped,  and  his  lips 
grew  firm.  "I'll  be  back  soon,"  he  said  in  a  far-off 


240  THE  ICE  PILOT 

voice.  "  You  watch  for  the  revolutionists.  Fire  that 
rifle  if  they  attempt  to  get  down." 

The  sailor  took  the  offering  with  bad  grace,  as 
Stirling  propped  him  up  in  the  bunk  and  released 
one  hand  so  that  he  could  eat.  He  retied  him 
securely  as  the  last  of  the  crackers  was  consumed 
between  yellow  teeth. 

"Stay  right  there,"  said  Stirling,  as  he  closed  the 
door.  "Better  keep  mighty  quiet,  too,"  he  added, 
sternly,  as  he  drew  the  key  from  the  lock. 

The  girl  had  climbed  partly  up  the  companionway 
steps,  and  she  turned,  drawing  her  skirts  about  her 
ankles  as  she  saw  Stirling  coming  from  the  forward 
alleyway. 

"  What's  up  there  ?"  he  asked,  setting  the  empty 
pitcher  and  tray  on  the  table.  "Can  you  see  any- 
thing, Miss  Marr?" 

"The  leader  and  two  other  revolutionists  are  at  the 
wheel,"  she  said.  "They  are  puzzled  over  something. 
I  think  the  leader  wants  to  steer  toward  the  north." 

The  girl  pointed  at  the  port  side  of  the  ship,  and 
Stirling  shook  his  head.  "That's  west  now,"  he 
said.  "It's  magnetic  west.  You  see  the  directions 
are  all  changed.  We're  heading  north  by  the  com- 
pass. If  he  changes  to  the  west  it  means  that  he  is 
going  to  try  and  clear  Banks  Land.  That'll  lead  us 
to  Melville  Sound.  It  may  be  open." 

Helen  Marr  lifted  her  chin  and  beamed  into 
Stirling's  face.  "There's  sunshine  on  the  ice,"  she 
said,  pointing  out  through  a  starboard  porthole. 


IN  SWIFT  SALUTE  241 

"See  it?  You  should  smile.  I  don't  think  we  are 
in  any  danger." 

Stirling  caught  the  contagion  of  youth  and  high 
spirits.  The  season  was  so  remarkable  that  he 
doubted  his  own  senses,  for  the  Pole  Star  was  steaming 
at  twelve  knots  through  waters  which  were  usually 
closed  to  all  save  the  lucky  ships  in  the  whaling  service. 
The  progress  from  Point  Barrow  had  been  continuous. 
They  had  gone  farther  east  than  most  Arctic  ex- 
peditions, and  the  way  north  was  clear  save  for 
small  ice  floes.  It  might  be  possible  to  reach  Melville 
Sound  and  unknown  straits  leading  to  Baffin  Bay. 

The  Ice  Pilot  bent  his  head  and  thought  deeply, 
but  the  ship  suddenly  swerved,  and  he  straightened. 
The  sunshine  now  streamed  through  the  after  star- 
board portholes  of  the  cabin,  striking  across  the 
racks  of  the  table  and  bringing  out  the  details  of  the 
bookshelves  and  piano. 

Helen  Marr  clapped  her  hands,  ran  to  the  porthole 
nearest  the  after  bulkhead,  and  peered  out,  then 
turned  with  eyes  of  flame.  "See,"  she  said,  "we're 
going  north  now — or  west.  There's  open  water  and 
an  open  sea.  Oh,  I'm  glad  of  it!" 

Her  slight  body  flitted  to  the  piano.  She  drew 
down  the  cover  and  pulled  out  a  stool.  The  music 
she  played  was  familiar  to  Stirling: 

"Whither,  oh,  splendid  ship,  thy  white  sails  crowding, 

Leaning  across  the  bosom  of  the  urgent  West, 
Thou  fearest  nor  sea  rising,  nor  sky  clouding, 
Whither  away  fair  rover,  and  what  thy  quest?" 


242  THE  ICE  PILOT 

The  girl  turned  on  the  revolving  stool  and  glanced 
toward  Stirling.  "How  do  you  like  that?"  she 
asked,  blithely.  "Do  you  want  more?" 

Stirling  smiled  and  nodded,  and  her  fingers  strayed 
over  the  ivory  keys  for  a  moment.  The  song  she 
sang  was  new  to  Stirling,  but  as  he  listened,  he  heard 
above  the  silver-running  notes  another  sound.  Steps 
came  overhead;  a  shadow  blotted  out  the  glass  of 
the  deck  light.  The  Russian  leader  had  been  at- 
tracted by  the  music,  and  he  was  joined  by  one  of 
the  revolutionists.  The  two  Russians  stood  in  rapt 
attention  as  Helen  Marr  sang  to  her  own  accom- 
paniment : 

"The  fair  wind  blew,  the  white  foam  flew, 

The  furrow  followed  free; 
And  we  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 
Into  that  silent  sea." 

The  girl  turned.  "That's  from  the  'Ancient 
Mariner/"  she  said.  "I  set  it  to  music.  I  think 
it's  appropriate,  don't  you,  Mr.  Stirling?" 

"The  silent  sea  part  is,"  he  said.  "I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  you  sang  the  truth.  Even  the  leader  was 
interested.  I  wonder  if  he  understands  English?" 

The  two  in  the  cabin  stared  up  at  the  shadows  on 
the  deck  light,  and  these  shadows  moved  away  as 
the  girl  rose  from  the  piano  stool  and  came  across 
the  deck. 

"You  had  better  go  into  the  stateroom  and  get 
some  sleep,  Mr.  Stirling,"  she  suggested.  "  You  look 


IN  SWIFT  SALUTE  243 

tired  and  worn.  Sleep  would  do  you  a  world  of 
good.  I'll  stand  guard." 

Stirling  climbed  the  companion  steps  and  tested 
the  barricade  of  oak  timbers  which  Marr  and  Slim 
had  fitted,  then  came  down  and  went  forward  to  the 
curtain.  A  second  doorway,  which  was  at  the  end  of 
the  alley,  had  been  nailed  shut  with  three-inch  spikes, 
and  there  seemed  no  way  for  the  revolutionists  to 
break  into  the  after  part  of  the  ship. 

He  moved  the  table  over  the  hole  he  had  cut  in 
the  deck,  and  upon  this  piled  stools  and  a  bookcase 
for  a  barricade. 

"Let  me  know  if  anything  happens,"  Stirling  said, 
as  he  stepped  toward  Marr's  stateroom.  "Be  sure 
and  do  that!" 

The  girl  lifted  the  rifle  and  stood  at  attention. 
"Good-night!"  she  said.  "Shut  the  door;  I'll  wake 
you  if  it's  necessary." 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

DANGER    AND    DOUBT 

WHEN  Stirling  awoke  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  had  passed  through  an  ocean  of  dreams. 
He  rolled  over  and  blinked  through  leaden 
eyes  at  the  porthole.  Dawn  was  breaking  across 
a  wild  waste  of  Northern  waters;  ice  floes  and  ancient 
packs  floated  by;  seals  sported ;  whale  slick  showed 
in  oily  patches,  and  the  sun  glanced  over  the  smooth 
surface  of  the  sea.  A  ripple  showed  where  the 
Pole  Star's  sharp  stem  was  cleaving  the  surface. 

Stirling  rubbed  his  eyes  and  listened.  The 
steady  clank  of  the  engines  and  the  vibration  of  the 
tail  shaft  beneath  him  still  continued.  He  glanced 
upward.  The  tiny,  telltale  compass  overhead  was 
pointing  west.  The  ship  was  headed  for  the  true 
pole! 

"Madmen!"  said  Stirling,  springing  out  of  the 
bunk. 

He  emerged  into  the  larger  cabin  to  find  that 
Helen  Marr  had  vanished.  The  rifle  lay  across  the 
table,  and  her  knitted  tam-o'-shanter  was  hanging 
from  one  corner  of  the  piano ;  the  deck  light  had  been 
thrown  open,  and  the  companionway  was  unbarred. 

Stirling  strode  through  the  curtain  and  tested  the 

244 


DANGER  AND  DOUBT  245 

door  which  led  to  the  sailor's  cabin.  It  was  locked. 
A  bitter  protest  in  Frisco  slang  greeted  his  query. 
He  hesitated.  The  girl  had  eluded  him  in  some 
manner.  She  had  gone  on  deck. 

He  crossed  the  alleyway,  cocked  the  rifle,  and  burst 
into  the  larger  cabin.  Up  the  steps  which  led  to  the 
companion  he  climbed  with  savage  strength,  and  the 
light  of  dawning  day  and  the  gust  of  salty  air  which 
filled  his  lungs  cleared  his  brain.  He  stared  about 
the  quarter-deck,  then  dropped  the  rifle's  butt  down 
upon  his  boot. 

The  girl,  bareheaded  and  with  ribbons  flying,  was 
sitting  in  a  deck  chair;  near  by  were  the  Russian 
leader  and  two  other  revolutionists.  They  turned 
as  she  laughed  buoyantly,  but  the  leader  frowned 
and  reached  for  his  pocket.  Stirling  raised  the  rifle 
and  swung  it  under  his  arm. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Stirling,"  called  the  girl. 
"Come  aft  with  me.  These  poor  men  are  not  our 
enemies.  They're  lost  and  want  a  pilot." 

Stirling  lowered  the  muzzle  of  the  rifle,  but  still 
eyed  the  leader,  and  his  lips  grew  hard  and  level  with 
suspicion.  He  raised  his  shoulders  slightly. 

The  girl  saw  the  motion  and  sprang  out  of  the 
deck  chair  with  a  cry.  "They're  only  big  boys!" 
she  exclaimed.  "  I  was  playing  the  piano  and  sing- 
ing— while  you  were  sleeping.  One  song  they  liked, 
and  the  leader  knocked  on  the  glass  and  called  to  me. 
There  were  tears  in  his  eyes.  He's  escaped  from 
Siberia  and  wants  to  get  to  America.  They  all 


246  THE  ICE  PILOT 

have  escaped,  Mr.  Stirling.  They  wouldn't  harm 
anybody!" 

Stirling  remembered  the  carnage  when  the  revolu- 
tionists took  the  ship.  But  perhaps  they  had  thought 
that  the  Pole  Star's  crew  would  resist  and  therefore 
had  anticipated  an  expected  attack.  And  they 
seemed  to  have  treated  the  girl  with  the  attention 
due  a  princess.  A  cushion  was  at  the  foot  of  the 
deck  chair;  tea  steamed  in  a  kettle;  crackers  had  been 
brought  from  the  galley. 

"I  think  you  had  better  go  below,"  said,  Stirling 
glancing  at  the  girl's  upturned  face. 

"Speak  to  them;  they  don't  mean  us  any  harm." 

Stirling  turned  toward  the  leader,  and  the  small 
eyes  before  him  lightened  where  they  had  been  filled 
with  fear.  A  gross,  hairy  hand  swept  forward  ex- 
pressively. 

"You  don't  know  where  you  are?"  asked  Stirling, 
gesturing. 

The  man,  apparently  getting  the  sense  of  the  Ice 
Pilot's  question,  shook  his  head. 

"Do  you  want  to  go  back?"  Stirling  pointed  the 
rifle  toward  the  jack  staff  and  the  stern  of  the  ship. 

The  leader  repeated  his  nod,  then  spoke  to  the  two 
others,  who,  Stirling  decided,  also  held  office  among 
the  revolutionists.  They  lumbered  to  the  rail  and 
stared  forward,  raising  their  arms  and  pointing. 

Stirling  shaded  his  eyes  from  the  rays  of  the  sun 
which  was  swinging  on  a  long  slant  over  the  sea,  and 
saw  ahead,  and  to  starboard,  the  glint  of  horizon- 


DANGER  AND  DOUBT  247 

down  ice.  He  knew  the  reason — they  were  within 
thirty  miles  of  Banks  Land. 

The  sea  was  open  to  the  magnetic  west,  where  a 
hard  line  rimmed  the  surface.  Gulls  flew  overhead, 
and  the  smoke  of  the  furnaces  blotted  across  the 
waters.  The  entire  scene  was  one  of  desperate  en- 
terprise. They  were  steaming  on  an  unknown  ocean 
of  danger  and  doubt,  where  no  explorers  had  been 
able  to  penetrate.  Only  an  open  season,  such  as 
Stirling  had  never  known  before,  permitted  the 
Pole  Star's  progress. 

With  a  mastering  glance,  he  turned  toward  the 
leader,  his  head  back,  the  cords  of  his  neck  showing 
like  roots  of  some  giant  oak.  Helen  Marr  seized  his 
left  hand  and  crept  close  up  to  him. 

"I'll  pilot  this  ship!"  he  said. 

"Where?"  asked  Helen  Marr. 

"Through  the  Northeast  Passage!" 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

TO  THE    LAST  DAY 

A  THE   sun   rose   above   the   ice-covered   sea 
on  the  morning  following  Stirling's  talk  with 
the   leader   of  the    revolutionists,   the    ship 
was  swung  toward  the  magnetic  north  and  driven 
within  the  opening  which  lies  between  Banks  Land 
and  Prince  Patrick  Island. 

Banks  Strait  the  passage  was  called,  and  it  led 
from  Beaufort  Sea  and  the  uncharted  waters  east 
of  Keenan  Land  to  Melville  Sound  and  Barrow 
Strait.  From  the  appearance  of  the  ice  and  direction 
of  the  wind,  Stirling  decided  to  chance  the  passage. 
There  was  no  way  back! 

He  climbed  the  shrouds  and  dropped  into  the 
crow's-nest.  The  after  deck,  from  the  companion 
hatch  to  the  taffrail,  had  been  reserved  by  the  revo- 
lutionists for  Helen  Marr  and  her  steamer  chair.  She 
had  conquered  the  Russians  by  her  smiles  and  songs. 
They  all  stood  in  the  presence  of  death  and  the  un- 
known. The  appearance  of  the  sea ;  the  strange  tides 
and  currents;  the  action  of  the  compass  at  variance 
with  the  stars — all  these  drove  the  haunting  desire 
of  companionship  within  men's  breasts.  Old  dif- 
ferences were  forgotten  in  the  face  of  despair. 

248 


TO  THE  LAST  DAY  249 

Stirling  took  quiet  charge  of  the  ship.  He  gave 
the  orders,  which  were  partly  understood  by  the 
leader,  who,  Stirling  soon  learned,  really  knew  a 
fair  amount  of  English,  although  at  first  he  had  been 
loath  to  disclose  his  knowledge,  no  doubt  for  stra- 
tegic reasons.  One  or  two  others  of  the  Russians  had 
a  smattering  of  English. 

The  Pole  Star  dodged  in  and  out  of  ice  floes  and 
drifting  packs  which  had  been  loosened  by  the 
unusual  warmth.  The  way  ahead  was  unknown  and 
uncharted,  and  it  was  barely  possible  that  the  heavier 
ice  had  gone  south  and  west  with  the  current  . 

Gripped  with  the  desire  for  research  and  discovery, 
Stirling  made  many  notes  in  Marr's  old  log  book.  He 
held  the  crow's-nest  until  the  sun  rimmed  the  western 
waste  of  waters  and  ice;  then  descended  to  the  deck 
as  an  open  lane  appeared  before  the  course  of  the  ship. 

With  his  hand  in  his  pocket  he  moved  among  the 
silent  revolutionists,  and  they  made  way  for  him  as 
he  stepped  across  the  waist  of  the  ship  and  climbed 
the  quarter-deck  steps.  Their  attitude  was  one 
of  respect.  Had  he  not  driven  the  Pole  Star  that 
day  through  a  wilderness  of  drift  ice  which  none  of 
them  believed  passable?  His  hearty  "Steady,  port; 
hard  aport — now  starboard!"  was  a  revelation  in 
piloting. 

The  coffee  he  drank  as  Helen  Marr  appeared  from 
the  companion  way  cleared  his  brain.  He  tapped  the 
log  book  and  swept  his  hand  over  the  sea  to  the  north. 

"All  new!"  he  said,  proudly.     "We're  about  the 


250  THE  ICE  PILOT 

first  ship  to  make  this  passage.  McClintock  on  a 
sledge  was  up  here." 

Helen  Marr  brushed  the  hair  from  her  forehead 
and  turned  with  the  silver  coffeepot  in  her  hand. 
She  pointed  over  the  taper  jib  boom  of  the  Pole 
Star.  "I  remember,"  she  said,  "a  painting  in  an 
old  book,  of  Lady  Franklin  and  Sir  John  Franklin 
sitting  together  in  an  old  London  room.  The  painting 
was  called  'The  Northwest  Passage." 

"He  died  down  there,"  said  Stirling,  pointing 
toward  the  magnetic  north.  "See  the  glint  of  ice? 
The  sun  won't  sink  to-day,  it  will  rim  the  world  to 
the  west  and  slowly  rise." 

The  girl  watched  Stirling  and  stepped  closer  to  his 
side.  "Do  you  think  we  can  get  through  to  open 
sea?"  she  asked,  turning  her  face  up  to  his. 

He  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  know,"  he  an- 
swered. "We'll  try!  We're  heading  for  Barrow 
Strait  and  Lancaster  Sound.  Both  may  be  jam- 
med with  ice.  If  they  are " 

Stirling's  pause  was  suggestive.  The  girl  shud- 
dered and  drew  a  coat  about  her  shoulders,  then 
set  the  coffeepot  down  on  the  deck  and  glided  to  the 
taffrail.  A  nip  had  come  into  the  air,  and  it  was  no 
longer  day  or  night.  The  sea  birds  rested  upon  the 
floes  without  motion;  the  seals  and  walrus  watched 
the  fast-gliding  ship,  then  slipped  into  the  water, 
and  were  gone.  Desolation  and  death  ruled  the 
world  above  seventy-three. 

Stirling  waited  until  the  girl  came  back.     She 


TO  THE  LAST  DAY  251 

picked  up  the  coffeepot,  and  her  eyes  were  filled 
with  longing  as  she  said: 

"Go  back  and  do  what  you  can.  There  seems  to 
be  ice  everywhere." 

Stirling  squared  his  shoulders  and  stepped  briskly 
to  the  wheelsman.  He  bent  there  and  consulted  the 
binnacle,  reached  and  took  the  chart  which  the  leader 
held  out  to  him.  Its  details  were  vague  enough. 
Dots  showed  where  land  might  be,  and  the  soundings 
were  in  spots  where  explorers  had  lowered  a  lead  line 
through  the  frozen  surface. 

"A  bad  place  to  be,"  Stirling  said  to  the  leader. 
"  I  think  we  are  in  for  it  from  now  on." 

The  leader  thrust  out  his  hands,  and  at  that  mo- 
ment the  ship  struck  a  sunken  ledge  of  ice.  The 
bow  sheered,  and  cries  came  from  forward. 

"Steady!"  Stirling  shouted  into  the  wheelsman's 
ear.  "Hold  her  steady,  you,  until  I  see!" 

He  leaped  the  planks  and  sprang  down  to  the 
waist.  He  was  up  the  weather  shrouds  and  into  the 
crow's-nest  with  the  agility  of  a  young  boy,  and  his 
eyes  swept  the  way  ahead.  The  stretch  of  ice  seemed 
interminable,  since  the  long  spit  of  sand  which  marked 
a  portion  of  Prince  of  Wales  Land  had  caused  the 
floes  to  ground,  and  there  seemed  no  way  to  the  east- 
ward. Stirling  turned  and  stared  aft  over  the  stern 
of  the  ship.  The  way  by  which  they  had  come  was 
now  blocked  by  floes. 

"Nipped!"  he  said  between  strong  white  teeth. 
"We' re  nipped!" 


252  THE  ICE  PILOT 

With  the  binoculars  he  swept  the  entire  ice-bound 
horizon.  The  sun  was  rising  through  the  western 
mist,  and  appeared  a  ball  of  cold  fire.  The  aurora 
played  across  the  Northern  heavens  and  leaped 
to  the  zenith.  Through  it  shone  the  light  points  of 
the  high  swinging  dipper  and  the  overhead  lodestar. 

Stirling  braced  himself,  pressed  the  glasses  to  his 
eyes  for  a  second  glance,  then  set  them  down.  He 
leaned  over  the  edge  of  the  crow's-nest  and  called 
to  the  leader,  who  was  at  the  wheel : 

"Give  her  full  speed  and  starboard  the  helm!" 

The  ship  gained  and  churned  forward.  The  jib 
boom  swung  off  toward  a  lower  shelf  of  ice,  and  the 
crash  that  followed  as  the  stout  sheathing  cut 
through  the  floes  drove  the  Russians  to  their  knees. 
The  foremast  whipped  like  a  willow  rod.  The  girl 
cried  a  warning. 

"Back  her!"  shouted  Stirling.  "Reverse,  and  try 
again!" 

The  manoeuvre  was  repeated.  The  ice  gave  way; 
the  Pole  Star  lunged  on  and  cleared  to  an  open  lane. 
Beyond  this  lane  was  still  another  icy  barrier. 

Stirling  attacked  this  with  fury.  He  felt  the  grip 
of  winter  in  the  air,  and  tiny  patches  of  new  ice  were 
forming  despite  the  rising  sun.  The  sea,  once  frozen, 
would  lock  them  in  the  North  for  many  winters. 
The  one  way  out  was  to  crush  the  floes  ahead. 

The  ship  grounded  on  a  hidden  sand  bar  which 
jutted  from  the  nearest  land  to  starboard.  Stirling 
gave  the  order  which  cleared  it,  but  only  after  an 


TO  THE  LAST  DAY  253 

anxious  half  hour  of  backing  and  plunging  forward. 
He  mopped  his  brow.  The  ice  had  drifted  around 
the  point  and  was  bearing  down  on  the  ship.  This 
time  there  seemed  no  escape.  Reluctantly  he  gave 
the  signal  to  cease  the  attempt,  and  climbed  from 
the  crow's-nest  down  the  rigging.  They  were  ice- 
bound in  Barrow  Strait. 

The  ship  swung  her  jib  boom  toward  the  land  and 
began  drifting  ashore.  Stirling  paused  at  the  rail  long 
enough  to  order  the  anchor  dropped,  then  went  aft 
as  the  Russians  cut  the  deck  lashings  and  began 
lifting  the  anchor. 

The  rattle  of  the  rusty  chain  through  the  hawser 
woke  him  to  the  terror  of  the  situation.  Steam 
plumed  from  aft  the  funnel,  but  the  screw  was  still. 
The  engine-room  crowd  had  emerged  from  the  com- 
panion and  were  staring  at  the  wilderness  of  ice  and 
snow.  The  sea  water  overside  and  around  the  Pole 
Star  was  scummed  with  a  film  of  mush  ice. 

The  leader  offered  Stirling  the  chart  when  he 
reached  the  quarter-deck,  and  as  he  took  it,  he  re- 
moved his  mittens,  and  breathed  upon  his  fingers. 
They  tingled  as  he  tracked  the  course  of  the  ship 
from  the  mouth  of  the  Mackenzie,  and  studied  all 
that  the  chart  had  to  tell  him  of  the  strait  ahead. 

The  position  of  the  Pole  Star  was  desperate.  The 
formation  of  heavy  ice  would  press  her  ashore,  and 
a  shift  of  current  or  advancing  floes  was  sure  to 
wreck  the  ship. 

Stirling  raised  his  eyes  and  rolled  up  the  chart, 


254  THE  ICE  PILOT 

then  passed  it  back  to  the  leader  with  a  shrug  of  his 
broad  shoulders.  The  Ice  Pilot  braced  his  legs 
against  a  step,  and  his  eyes  swept  along  the  deck. 
The  revolutionists  had  gathered  in  the  waist,  and 
some  were  pointing  to  the  land  which  lay  to  star- 
board, where  green  patches  of  moss  showed  upon 
the  lowland,  but  the  hills  were  crusted  with  perpetual 
snow.  The  weather  side  of  the  ridge  showed  deep 
gullies  filled  with  black  ice  from  which  streams  of 
water  had  issued,  and  then  frozen.  There  was 
no  sign  of  life,  save  an  Arctic  bird  which  wheeled  in 
the  sky  and  started  toward  the  southward. 

Helen  Marr  glided  across  the  deck  and  came  to 
Stirling's  side,  glancing  up  at  him  with  wonder 
breaking  through  the  beauty  of  her  eyes.  She  had 
donned  a  sealskin  cap  and  long  coat,  and  her  red  lips 
and  crimson  cheeks  struck  him  with  the  force  of  an 
accusation.  He  lowered  his  glance  and  stared  at  the 
deck. 

"Can't  we  go  on?"  she  asked,  a  tremor  in  her 
voice. 

"Not  now,  Miss  Helen.  Perhaps  the  ice  barrier 
will  open  by  night,  the  current  is  still  in  our  favour, 
but  it's  the  wind  that  counts.  See,  it  is  toward 
shore.  That  brings  the  ice." 

The  girl  studied  the  drifting  floes  which  were 
gathering  about  the  whaler,  like  chicks  about  a 
mother  hen.  Beyond  these  floes  came  others,  crash- 
ing and  tumbling,  driven  by  the  northeast  wind. 
She  turned  toward  the  land,  and  her  hand  went 


TO  THE  LAST  DAY  255 

up  to  shield  her  eyes  from  the  glint  of  sun  on  ice. 
"What  country  is  that?"  she  asked. 

"That's  Russel  Island  off  Prince  of  Wales  Land. 
If  we  could  get  around  that  point  we  might  go  on 
through  Barrow  Strait." 

The  girl  bit  her  lip,  wheeled  suddenly,  and  stared 
down  at  the  waist  of  the  ship.  The  revolutionists 
had  grown  excited  over  their  argument  which  was  as 
to  whether  they  should  leave  the  ship  before  it  was 
crushed  by  the  gathering  floes.  They  pointed 
toward  the  land  and  the  sky  beyond,  where  the  haze 
marked  still  other  land.  Green  spots  showed  close 
to  shore — Arctic  moss  and  tundra. 

Stirling  touched  the  girl  on  the  shoulder.  "  I  see 
them,"  he  said.  "They  may  decide  to  abandon  the 
ship.  Let's  go  below  and  boil  some  coffee.  I'm 
going  to  wait  until  the  wind  shifts  before  I  decide. 
They  may  want  me  to  lead  a  landing  party,  but  I'll 
stick  to  the  ship." 

"And  me?" 

"Yes;  and  you — to  the  last  day  of  my  life!" 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

A    GRIM   WARNING 

THE   statement   was  made   so  fervently  that 
Helen   Marr  blushed  and  did  not  answer  as 
she  followed  the  towering  form  of  the  Ice  Pilot 
across  the  quarter-deck  and  down  into  the  cabin, 
which  was  warm  from  the  steam  pipes  which  led 
from    the    boilers.     The    coffeepot   was   filled   and 
placed  over  an  alcohol  stove,  and  she  added  some 
biscuits  and  marmalade  to  the  meal. 

Stirling  had  removed  his  cap,  showing  a  slight 
sprinkle  of  gray  in  his  hair,  but  his  eyes  spoke  of 
youth  and  were  strong  with  resolve.  She  raised  her 
glance  and  smiled  as  she  offered  the  coffee. 

It  came  to  her  with  force  that  he  was  no  longer  the 
aged,  shaggy  bear  who  had  crawled  up  the  trapdoor 
in  the  deck  of  the  cabin.  Her  influence  had  been  for 
good,  and  he  reminded  her  of  a  faithful  Viking  who 
would  shed  his  last  drop  of  blood  for  her  protection. 
The  revolutionists  were  potentially  dangerous,  but 
she  sensed  with  the  intuition  of  woman  that  they 
feared  Stirling. 

He  rose  from  the  table  and  stood  with  his  head 
close  to  the  deck  beams.  "  I'll  go  up  now,"  he  said, 
"and  watch  the  ice.  Your  coffee  was  a  fine  bracer." 

256 


A  GRIM  WARNING  257 

She,  too,  rose  and  followed  him  to  the  step  leading 
to  the  deck  companion.  "Do  you  think  the  Rus- 
sians will  desert  the  ship?"  she  asked. 

"They  go  to  their  death  if  they  do.  The  land  is 
impassable.  It  is  five  hundred  miles  to  the  nearest 
Hudson  Bay  post.  Franklin  and  others  could  not 
cross  that  barren  land.  Nor  can  the  revolutionists." 

"  But  they  are  Russians  and  used  to  the  cold." 

Stirling  shook  his  head  and  replaced  his  cap.  "The 
ship  is  the  only  way  out,"  he  said,  sincerely.  "We 
must  stick  by  it!" 

He  was  halfway  up  the  steps  when  she  called  to 
him.  He  turned  and  glanced  down,  his  fingers  on 
the  combing  of  the  hatch.  His  eyes  widened  as 
she  lifted  her  face  to  his  and  pouted  slightly. 

"There's  one  thing  we've  forgotten,"  she  said. 

"What  is  that?" 

"About  the  man  from  San  Francisco,  the  one  you 
locked  in  the  cabin.  Don't  you  think  you  should 
let  him  loose?" 

Stirling  caught  the  note  of  sympathy  in  her  tones, 
but  he  shook  his  head. 

"He  will  behave,"  she  added,  quickly.  " I'm  sure 
that  he  will.  He  is  afraid  of  you." 

Her  eyes  were  wide  and  very  blue. 

"Please  let  him  go,"  she  asked.  "I'm  sure  of 
him." 

The  Ice  Pilot  turned  and  strode  across  the  cabin, 
brushed  aside  the  curtain,  and  passed  into  the  alley- 
way. Voices  sounded  as  Helen  Marr  waited,  then 


258  THE  ICE  PILOT 

Slim  appeared  with  one  hand  grasping  the  wrist  of 
the  other. 

He  leered  through  the  half  light  of  the  cabin,  and 
glanced  up  at  the  deck  opening.  "It's  a  fine  way 

to "  he  began,  but  Stirling  silenced  him  with  a 

glance. 

"Get  on  deck!"  the  Ice  Pilot  commanded.  "Get 
up  and  forward!  The  Russians  won't  kill  you, 
they're  too  busy  deciding  whether  to  abandon  the 
ship  or  not.  You'll  find  food  in  the  galley.  Go 
now!" 

Slim  paused  at  the  top  of  the  steps  and  glared 
down,  then  ducked  his  unshaven  face  as  Stirling 
moved  toward  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  started  up- 
ward. There  was  that  in  Stirling's  face  which 
brooked  no  excuses;  his  jaw  was  set  with  a  fighting 
bulge  at  the  point. 

The  deck  was  deserted,  the  wheel  swung  idle,  and 
the  Pole  Star  rose  and  fell  with  the  ground  swell 
which  lifted  the  ice  floes  and  packed  them  upon  the 
shelving  beach. 

Stirling  crossed  the  planks,  after  shutting  the 
cabin  companion  hatch,  and  stood  by  the  canvas 
rail,  studying  the  excited  knot  of  revolutionists  in  the 
waist  below  him.  The  leader  had  mounted  a  hatch 
and  was  speaking  rapidly,  pointing  now  and  then  to 
the  menace  of  the  ice  gathering  to  the  north  and  west. 

The  land  over  the  starboard  rail  held  a  certain 
lure  to  ignorant  minds,  the  green  moss  and  lichens 
which  showed  being  apparently  a  promise  of  greener 


A  GRIM  WARNING  259 

things  to  the  southward.  But  Stirling  knew  that  this 
inference  could  not  be  made.  The  way  to  the  Amer- 
ican continent  was  ice  strewn  and  bare  of  animals; 
a  trail  of  death  and  starvation. 

The  Russians  moved  in  a  flock  to  the  rail  and  stud- 
ied the  ice  about  the  ship — already  firm  enough  to 
support  a  man's  weight.  The  low  swinging  sun  had 
not  warmed  the  air  enough  to  prevent  the  sea  from 
freezing,  and  floes  and  drift  ice  were  being  cemented 
in  the  laboratory  of  nature.  The  ship  alone  was 
free,  but  encompassed  by  a  ring  of  spongy  ice  and 
snow. 

The  sky  overhead  was  pale;  light  flurries  of  ice 
particles  dropped  down  to  the  deck,  while  the 
Northern  aurora  played  and  shot  streamers  up  to 
the  zenith.  The  sun  plunged  into  a  heavy  haze 
which  seemed  to  rim  the  entire  horizon,  and  the 
temperature  fell.  The  barometer  was  steady  at 
twenty-nine,  point  six.  Stirling  played  for  a  shift 
of  wind  which  alone  would  free  the  ship  from  the 
coming  deadlock. 

He  waited,  and  watched  the  revolutionists.  The 
dock  rat  emerged  from  the  galley  door  and  wiped 
his  mouth  with  the  back  of  his  hand,  stared  at  the 
Russians  and  then  toward  the  quarter-deck.  He 
made  no  attempt  to  come  aft,  and  the  evil  that  was 
stamped  in  his  face  held  Stirling  rigid. 

The  leader  shouted  something  in  Russian,  and  a 
hoarse  cheer  broke  from  many  throats.  A  decision 
had  been  reached  in  regard  to  abandoning  the  Pole 


260  THE  ICE  PILOT 

Star.  Russians  to  the  number  of  a  score  sprang 
forward,  ripped  the  battings  from  the  fore  hatch, 
and  disappeared  into  the  hold.  Others  ransacked  the 
galley  for  food  and  clothes. 

A  rude  sled  was  devised  from  part  of  a  whaleboat 
and  rope-yarn  splicings.  Upon  this  the  leader  climbed 
and  pointed  dramatically  toward  the  low-lying 
land,  slapped  the  chart  with  the  back  of  his  hand, 
and  traced  out  an  imaginary  course.  Stirling  leaned 
far  forward  and  watched  him,  amusement,  mingled 
with  pity  sweeping  over  his  strong  face.  He  called, 
and  then  repeated  the  call.  The  leader  lowered  his 
chart  and  turned. 

"You're  going  to  your  doom!"  declared  Stirling. 
"Abandon  this  ship  and  you  are  lost.  There  is  no 
way  to  civilization  by  the  land  route!"  He  pointed 
a  mittened  finger  toward  the  island  and  the  magnetic 
north. 

The  leader  flushed  and  struck  the  chart  with  a 
sharp  blow,  sprang  from  the  sled,  and  hurried  aft. 
Stirling  met  him  with  a  cold  smile.  "I  told  you," 
he  said,  "that  there  is  no  way.  No  way!  Do  you 
understand  that?" 

"There  is  a " 

Stirling  thrust  the  leader  from  the  quarter-deck, 
then  turned  and  strode  to  the  companion.  Pausing 
at  the  hatch,  he  glanced  aloft.  Ice  had  appeared 
upon  the  cap  of  the  mizzenmast,theriggingwascoated 
with  frost,  and  the  wind,  from  the  north  and  east, 
held  steadily.  Its  velocity  was  not  more  than  eight 


A  GRIM  WARNING  261 

miles  an  hour,  and  it  showed  signs  of  changing  some 
time  during  the  short  Arctic  night. 

Stirling  went  below  after  sliding  open  the  cabin 
hatch.  Helen  Marr  stood  by  a  landward  porthole, 
and  she  turned  and  smiled  at  Stirling,  but  the  smile 
died  as  she  saw  the  sombre  light  in  his  eyes.  "What 
happened?"  she  asked. 

"They're  going  to  abandon  the  ship.  It  means 
their  death." 

"Can't  you  stop  them?"  The  girl  had  begun  to 
believe  that  Stirling  was  strong  enough  to  accom- 
plish anything. 

"  It  would  be  no  use  trying,"  he  said,  removing  his 
cap  and  fingering  it  with  fingers  which  tingled. 
"Their  minds  are  made  up.  The  leader  thinks  he 
can  reach  a  Hudson  Bay  post.  He  does  not  know 
what  I  know- 
Stirling's  voice  trailed  off  into  an  expressive  pause, 
as  he  thought  of  the  grim  tales  he  had  heard  of  Banks 
Land  and  the  Gulf  of  Boothia.  Many  trappers  and 
explorers  had  laid  their  bones  out  on  the  Arctic  wilds. 
The  land  was  barren,  extending  to  the  white  ram- 
parts of  the  Mackenzie  River  on  the  south  and  west, 
and  to  the  Hudson  Bay  on  the  east  and  north.  It 
was  without  vegetation  or  animal  life  for  nine  months 
of  the  year,  and  the  water  courses  were  frozen  over 
to  the  same  dead  level  as  the  rest  of  the  world.  Only 
the  white  fox  and  the  skulking  wolf  were  to  be  seen, 
and  these  two  animals  were  far  too  wary  to  be  shot. 
"They're  lost  if  they  leave  the  ship,"  said  Stirling, 


262  THE  ICE  PILOT 

waking  from  his  thoughts.  "We'll  stay  here  and 
winter,  if  necessary.  The  ice  may  crush  the  Pole  Star, 
but  we  can  get  enough  provisions  and  fuel  ashore  to 
last  out.  It  might  be  possible  to  work  to  the  west 
next  summer  in  a  whaleboat.  It  all  depends  on  the 
season.  I  never  saw  one  so  open  as  this  one  was,  but 
there  may  never  be  another  like  it,  Miss  Marr." 

The  girl  turned  toward  the  porthole,  and  the  cold 
breeze  which  cut  through  the  opening  brought  colour 
to  her  cheeks  and  fanned  her  hair. 

"Is  there  no  chance  of  getting  through  to  the 
open  sea  this  summer?"  she  asked,  shivering  slightly 
and  drawing  her  deerskin  jacket  about  her  slight 
waist. 

"Yes,  by  Heaven;  there  is  a  chance!"  Stirling's 
voice  rose  and  filled  the  cabin.  "There's  a  fighting 
chance,  Miss  Marr!" 

She  turned  and  stared  at  him,  and  her  lips  formed 
the  question.  He  laid  his  cap  on  the  table  and  opened 
his  pea-jacket,  breathing  with  giant  gulps  of  sup- 
pressed emotion.  Suddenly  the  air  had  grown  warm 
to  him.  "I  can  get  through,"  he  said,  "if  within  a 
few  hours  the  wind  shifts  to  the  south  and  west.  That 
will  clear  Barrow  Strait  of  ice.  Once  out  of  the  Strait, 
the  way  is  open  to  Baffin  Bay  through  the  Lancaster 
Sound." 

Helen  Marr  clapped  her  hands,  then  wheeled  with 
swishing  skirts  and  stared  out  through  the  porthole. 
"The  wind,"  she  said,  "is  dying.  Does  that  indicate 
anything?" 


A  GRIM  WARNING  263 

"Everything!" 

"Then  the  Russians  will  stay?" 

"No;  they  are  going.  I  want  a  few  to  remain 
with  us.  That  dock  rat  will,  he's  too  lazy  to  try  for 
the  American  continent.  Perhaps  there  are  others 
who  will  listen  to  reason,  but  the  time  is  short. 
Maybe  through  the  leader  I  can  get  the  case  stated 
to  them,  and  ask  for  volunteers  who  are  willing  to 
wait  for  the  wind  to  shift." 

Helen  Marr  glided  to  the  piano  and  lifted  a  seal- 
skin coat  from  its  stool.  She  thrust  her  arms  into 
the  sleeves  of  this  as  Stirling  stepped  forward  with 
wonder  written  across  his  features. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  he  asked. 

"Going  to  see  all  of  them  and  talk  to  them.  I'm 
going  to  make  myself  understood  in  some  way.  Don't 
you  see,  Mr.  Stirling,  the  matter  is  serious?  If  they 
go,  there  will  be  nobody  but  you  and  me  to  work 
the  ship  when  the  wind  shifts.  We  couldn't  do  it 
alone." 

"Well,  it's  worth  trying,"  said  Stirling.  "I'll 
stand  on  the  quarter-deck  at  the  weather  steps,  and 
you  go  down  to  them.  Try  Slim  first.  The  leader 
won't  stay,  but  some  of  the  younger  Russians  might." 

The  girl  pressed  a  cap  upon  her  head,  gathered 
her  hair  into  a  knot,  and  ran  up  the  stairs  which  led 
to  the  deck.  Stirling  picked  up  a  rifle  before  he 
followed  her.  They  stood  in  the  frosty  air  and 
glanced  forward.  The  Russians  had  lowered  the 
sled  and  provisions  to  an  ice  floe  which  had  grounded 


264  THE  ICE  PILOT 

alongside  the  ship.  More  ice  extended  from  the 
floe  to  the  shore,  and  three  of  the  revolutionists  had 
already  made  the  passage.  They  stood  on  the  beach 
waving  their  arms. 

The  girl  went  down  the  quarter-deck  steps  and 
glided  forward  over  the  main  hatch.  She  touched 
Slim  on  the  arm,  and  the  dock  rat  followed  her  for- 
ward to  where  the  revolutionists  were  breaking  out 
stores  from  the  hold. 

Stirling  watched  and  waited.  The  Russians  took 
time  to  listen  to  the  girl's  request,  but  most  of  them 
stared  at  each  other  dumbly.  She  pointed  to  the 
telltale  on  the  mizzenmast,  her  arm  swinging  in  a 
graceful  circle  and  indicating  that  the  wind  would 
change.  She  finished  her  argument  by  springing 
to  the  weather  rail  and  showing  where  the  ice  had 
cleared  from  the  ship's  side. 

The  magic  of  her  voice  and  soft  presence  had  its 
influence  upon  the  Russians,  and  they  gathered  and 
surged,  and  separated  into  groups.  Seven,  after  a 
shrewd  glance  toward  the  barren  shore,  moved  with 
Slim  to  the  galley  where  the  leader  had  stationed 
himself.  These  seven  raised  their  arms  and  turned 
toward  Stirling. 

"Come  up!"  shouted  the  Ice  Pilot,  gesturing  to 
help  make  clear  the  meaning  of  the  words. 

Fear  had  gripped  the  hearts  of  every  Russian 
aboard  the  Pole  Star;  the  unknown  sea  and  the  frost 
which  nipped  to  the  bone  had  driven  a  panic  within 
their  breasts.  The  leader  had  stated  that  it  was 


A  GRIM  WARNING  265 

possible  to  reach  a  Hudson  Bay  fort  before  the  set- 
ting in  of  winter,  and  had  added  that  the  sea  would 
soon  be  frozen  and  the  ship  crushed. 

They  believed  this  to  be  the  case,  and  the  seven 
which  Helen  Marr  had  persuaded  to  remain  were  in 
danger  from  their  fellows.  Mutiny  might  spread. 
The  leader  quickly  shouted  an  order,  and  the  boxes 
and  cans  were  hurled  overboard  to  the  ice  floe,  the 
Russians  following  in  a  long  line.  They  stood  and 
glanced  upward,  their  mouths  agape,  their  whiskered 
faces  white  with  hoarfrost. 

"Good-bye!"  shouted  Stirling,  waving  the  rifle. 
"Good-bye  to  you  all!" 

The  leader  snarled  an  answer  and  set  about  getting 
the  load  onto  the  sled  where  there  was  scant  room 
for  one  half  of  the  boxes  and  cans  thrown  overside. 
The  remainder  was  left  as  the  troop  started  across 
the  floes  and  straggled  to  the  beach.  Here  they 
turned  and  watched  the  ship  as  if  loath  to  give  it  up. 

The  girl  climbed  swiftly  to  the  auarter-deck  to 
Stirling's  side. 

"Seven  stayed,"  she  said,  breathlessly.  "Seven, 
and  the  man  from  San  Francisco.  Didn't  I  do 
well?" 

Stirling  smiled  down  upon  her  and  touched  his 
cap."  Yes,  little  captain,"  he  said,  gallantly.  "You 
did  fine!  Tell  Slim  and  four  of  the  squad — I  guess 
you  can  make  the  Russians  understand — to  jump 
below  and  get  steam  on  in  the  boilers.  Tell  the 
men  to  bank  the  fires  when  they  get  well  started." 


266  THE  ICE  PILOT 

The  girl  touched  her  forehead  with  a  regulation 
salute  as  she  turned  and  smiled  upward  from  the 
waist  of  the  ship,  then  advanced  upon  the  dock  rat 
and  the  Russians  by  the  galley  door.  The  Russians 
understood  her  gestures  if  not  her  words,  and  Slim 
frowned  and  scratched  his  matted  head,  glancing 
from  Russian  to  Russian.  They  had  accepted  him 
as  their  leader  without  question,  but  their  sheeplike 
eyes  strayed  aft  and  fastened  upon  the  grim  figure 
of  Stirling. 

Four  followed  the  sailor  to  the  engine-room  com- 
panion and  went  down  the  iron  ladder.  Soon 
sounds  of  fires  being  freshened  by  new  coal  came 
through  the  ventilators,  and  the  ship  surged  and 
shook  as  if  freeing  itself. 

Stirling  motioned  for  the  three  Russians  who  re- 
mained by  the  galley,  and  they  followed  the  girl  to 
the  waist  of  the  ship.  He  leaned  over  the  quarter- 
deck canvas  and  stared  at  them. 

The  girl  climbed  the  steps  and  stood  by  his  side. 
He  shielded  her  with  his  body  as  they  waited  while 
the  sun  glided  within  the  horizon  haze.  A  frosty  nip 
came  with  its  disappearance,  and  the  lines  about 
Stirling's  lips  softened  slightly.  He  turned  from 
the  girl  and  strode  to  the  rail  on  the  landward  side 
of  the  ship,  where  she  joined  him,  and  they  watched 
the  Russians  streaming  in  a  long  line  over  the  snow- 
mantled  island.  The  leader  turned  on  the  brow 
of  an  icy  hill  and  waved  farewell ;  then  he  was  gone. 

The  wind  died  to  a  faint  breeze  which  varied  dur- 


A  GRIM  WARNING  267 

ing  the  hours  of  semi-darkness  while  Stirling  and  the 
girl  stood  the  watch.  Ice  creaked  and  splintered  to 
the  north  and  east;  the  aurora  flamed  and  crimsoned 
the  heavens,  with  cold  light  points  dying  beneath 
its  glow.  The  moon  rose  with  a  double  ring,  reveal- 
ing its  position  in  the  haze,  and  the  far-off  North 
pack  groaned  and  whispered  its  grim  warning  of 
danger. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

THROUGH   THE    DRIVING    SNOW 

SOON  Stirling  felt  the  girl's  body  close  beside 
him,  but   she   had    said   no   word  for  hours. 
The  glory  of  the  Arctic  night  had  held  her  spell- 
bound; the  beauty  of  the  North  enthralled  her.    She 
was  in  tune  with  the  great  wilderness  of  ice  and  snow. 

Suddenly  a  soft  gust  of  vapour-laden  air  swung  over 
the  island  and  pressed  the  ship  toward  the  true  north. 
This  gust  was  repeated.  The  Pole  Star  tugged  at 
her  anchor  chain,  the  floes  parted  to  leeward,  and  a 
lane  of  open  water  showed.  This  led  through  the 
deeper  part  of  Barrow  Strait;  it  was  the  road  to  open 
sea  and  Baffin  Bay. 

A  Russian  forward  sang  out  a  warning,  leaning 
over  the  forepeak  rail  and  pointing  toward  the  anchor 
chain. 

"The  wind  has  veered!"  Stirling  said,  simply. 

"From  the  south?"  she  asked. 

"No;  to  the  south  and  west,  Miss  Marr.  We  will 
have  open  water  soon.  See!" 

Helen  Marr  moved  slowly  to  the  rail  and  stared 
with  brimming  eyes  toward  the  white  sheen  of 
Russel  Island,  then  turned  impulsively.  "Can't  we 
save  the  Russians?"  she  asked. 

268 


THROUGH  THE  DRIVING  SNOW     269 

"No,"  he  answered.  "They  have  gone,  perhaps 
to  their  doom.  At  least  there  is  nothing  that  we  can 
do  for  them.  For  ourselves,  we  have  chosen  the 
right  road.  It  leads  into  the  open  sea!" 

It  was  midnight  by  the  ship's  clock  in  the  cabin 
when  Stirling  climbed  up  the  companion  steps, 
glanced  down  at  Helen  Marr  with  an  assuring  nod, 
then  strode  out  upon  the  deck  and  swung  four- 
square to  the  task  ahead  of  him. 

The  sun  rimmed  the  world  toward  the  true  west, 
and  through  the  opal  haze,  its  glow  brought  out  the 
details  of  the  drifting  ice  which  was  being  driven 
through  Barrow  Strait  by  the  south  wind. 

Stirling  made  a  note  of  this  drift,  and  then  moved 
toward  the  rail  on  the  lee  side  of  the  ship.  The  lane 
of  open  water,  which  showed  black  against  the  floes 
and  new  ice,  led  toward  the  east  and  Melville  Sound. 

He  measured  the  drift  of  a  passing  ice  island, 
sniffed  the  air,  raised  his  hand,  then  turned  slowly 
and  glided  toward  the  wheel.  Leaning  over  the 
canvas  barricade  he  called  down  to  the  waist  of  the 
ship,  and  a  form  stirred  in  the  galley's  shadow.  It 
was  Slim. 

"Get  below!"  snapped  Stirling.  "Get  steam  on 
the  forward  winch.  We're  going  through  the  ice!" 

This  terse  order  rolled  along  the  ship's  deck,  and 
brought  the  remaining  Russians  from  the  warmth  of 
the  forecastle.  Slim  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
slouched  for  the  engine-room  companion. 

Steam   soon   plumed   aft   the  funnel,   when    the 


2yo  THE  ICE  PILOT 

banked  fires  were  blown  into  glowing  coals.  The 
winch  wheezed  and  groaned  as  a  Russian  unskilfully 
turned  on  the  two-way  cock.  Stirling  sprang  to  the 
lee  steps  and  dropped  to  the  waist  of  the  ship, 
going  along  the  rail  like  a  muffled  bear  in  search  of 
prey. 

"Unshackle  it!"  he  shouted  into  the  Russian's 
ear.  "The  winch  is  too  slow.  Drive  that  pin  from 
the  anchor  chain!" 

Stirling  pointed  to  where  the  chain  passed  through 
a  hawse  hole  flush  with  the  deck,  and  the  Russian 
understood.  He  lifted  a  belaying  pin  from  the  rail 
and  drove  out  the  bolt.  The  anchor  chain  dropped 
overside  as  Stirling  sprang  back,  glanced  forward, 
then  hurried  toward  the  quarter-deck. 

Swinging  the  wheel  he  reached  and  jerked  the 
engine-room  indicator  for  quarter  speed.  The  en- 
gines started,  the  screw  thrashed  the  new  ice  astern, 
and  the  Pole  Star  sheered  from  the  island,  driving 
forward  toward  the  lane  of  dark  water. 

The  sheathed  prow  cut  sharply  as  Slim  opened  wide 
the  main  valve  and  shouted  for  more  steam.  The 
ship  listed,  righted,  and  held  a  course  between  rail- 
high  floes  until  Stirling  steadied  the  helm.  The  way 
was  open  down  the  strait. 

Helen  Marr  came  through  the  cabin  companion 
and  stood  by  the  nearest  deck  light  to  Stirling,  fearing 
to  bother  him  or  to  call  his  name.  Her  face  was 
flushed  with  the  agony  of  the  moment,  as  the  grinding 
floes  under  the  ship's  counter  threatened  to  rip  the 


THROUGH  THE  DRIVING  SNOW      271 

planks  from  the  ribs.  The  swing  of  Stirling's  body 
as  he  wrestled  with  the  wheel  was  a  compelling  sight, 
and  held  her  eyes  as  she  waited.  She  breathed 
deeply  of  the  Arctic  air,  and  called  to  Stirling,  but 
he  did  not  hear  her.  His  straining  muscles  stood  out 
from  his  neck,  and  his  shoulders  lunged  and  con- 
tracted. 

The  ship  plunged  on,  the  funnel  belching  forth 
smoke  and  cinders,  which  starred  the  night  like 
fireflies,  and  then  fell  hissing  into  the  sea  astern.  The 
land  on  the  starboard  beam  rose  to  a  barrier  below 
which  the  ice  floes  curled  and  eddied. 

Stirling  smashed  through,  with  his  unmittened 
hands  gripping  the  spokeS  of  the  wheel.  Ahead 
showed  the  silvery  glint  of  the  moon.  Astern,  the 
sun  mellowed  the  Arctic  world.  About  was  death 
and  cold,  gripping  horror. 

It  was  the  passage  that  Franklin  in  the  Erebus 
and  Terror  had  sought  in  vain,  and  it  was  open  from 
sea  to  sea.  Stirling  realized  this  fact  as  he  reached 
for  the  engine-room  telegraph  and  set  it  for  full  speed. 
There  was  a  chance  to  drive  through  before  the  wind 
shifted  from  the  south,  but  he  was  attempting  a 
thing  that  the  world  called  impossible. 

Four  bells  came  with  the  Pole  Star  swirled  in  a 
white  curtain  of  driving  snow  which  had  been  born 
of  the  south  wind.  The  moon  showed  as  a  silver 
disk  directly  over  the  frosted  jib  boom,  and  the  sun 
had  been  blotted  from  the  view. 

Helen  Marr  moved  timidly  toward  the  straining 


272  THE  ICE 'PILOT 

form  of  the  Ice  Pilot.     He  felt  her  presence  but  did 
not  swerve. 

She  whispered  into  his  muffled  ear:  "Carry  on!" 
Stirling  nodded  and  swung  the  spokes  a  quarter 
turn.  They  came  back  against  the  palm  of  his  hand, 
and  he  peered  through  the  snow.  The  moon  had  a 
double  ring,  and  it  awoke  a  verse  from  the  girl  who 
stood  wrapped  in  her  furs : 

"That  orbed  maiden,  with  white  fire  laden, 

Whom  mortals  call  the  moon, 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-lined  floor, 
By  midnight  breezes  strewn." 

Stirling  turned  his  head  slightly  and  smiled  with 
the  snow  dripping  from  his  lips.  The  girl  glanced 
ahead  and  shuddered  as  a  drifting  cloud  obscured 
the  moon.  The  way  was  mantled  with  falling  ice 
particles,  and  the  ship's  rigging  showed  up  ghostlike. 
The  muffled  Russians  on  the  forepeak  moved  about 
in  the  gloom  like  walruses  that  had  climbed  aboard. 

The  Pole  Star  hurtled  on.  Stirling  sensed  the 
true  direction  with  the  skill  of  a  master  pilot  and 
dodged  looming  ice  floes  by  fathoms.  He  swung  the 
ship  toward  the  magnetic  west  and  reached  for  the 
high  land  which  towered  there,  then  sheered  from 
this  into  the  channel  made  by  the  inky  waters.  The 
Pole  Star  glided  eastward  along  the  meridian,  and 
thrust  her  sharp  stem  through  a  lane  of  seething 
waves  which  marked  the  open  reaches  of  Lancaster 
Sound. 


THROUGH  THE  DRIVING  SNOW      273 

The  way  to  the  south — north  by  the  magnetic  com- 
pass— was  also  open.  Stirling  sensed  that  it  would 
be  possible  to  drive  through  the  Gulf  of  Boothia,  and 
this  route  might  take  him  to  Hudson  Bay  and  Hud- 
son Strait.  He  chose  the  easterly  passage  and  set 
his  feet  wide  apart  as  the  floes  dashed  down  upon  the 
staunch  ship. 

Helen  Marr  leaned  over  the  wheel  and  watched 
the  binnacle.  The  compass  whirled  and  was  never 
still.  They  were  over  the  true  magnetic  pole,  and 
north  was  south;  only  the  sense  of  direction  told 
Stirling  the  course  to  steer,  but  he  held  on  grimly, 
with  his  jaw  set  to  a  block.  The  Russians  on  the 
forepeak  shouted  warnings,  waves  came  over  the  jib 
boom  and  the  forecastle,  and  the  churning  vortex 
of  cross  currents  and  storm  dashed  the  ship  like  a  chip 
in  a  whirlpool,  while  the  snow  fell  in  circling  clouds. 

The  passage  led  to  the  lee  of  North  Somerset 
Island,  and  a  towering  headland  of  basalt  protected 
the  ship  from  the  fury  of  the  south  wind.  A  calm 
spot  showed  ahead,  through  which  moonbeams  shone. 

Stirling  released  one  hand  from  the  wheel  and 
pointed.  "See,"  he  said.  "See,  that  is  Somerset! 
We're  heading  for  North  Devon  Island  and  Lancaster 
Sound.  We  are  already  in  the  Strait.  I  never 
knew  it  was  open!" 

Open  it  was,  as  the  girl  saw.  The  moon  revealed 
the  serrated  outlines  of  the  land  to  the  southward, 
where  the  sharp  teeth  of  the  coast  range,  which  but- 
tressed the  shore,  stood  out  bare  of  ice  or  snow.  It 


274  THE  ICE  PILOT 

seemed  a  huge  saw  cutting  across  the  top  of  the 
world. 

Stirling  breathed  deeply  and  studied  the  compass, 
then  sheered  to  the  true  north,  crashed  through  a 
ledge  of  locked  ice,  and  won  the  way  to  an  open  lane 
which  led  toward  the  east  and  Baffin  Bay. 

The  girl  turned  as  a  light  struck  across  the  churn- 
ing waters,  and  cried  out  as  she  saw  the  orange  disk 
of  the  sun  rising  in  the  south.  It  had  broken  through 
the  snow  flurry.  It  revealed  the  land  and  Sound, 
which  were  coated  in  places  with  the  recent  snow, 
and  brought  out  the  flying  clouds  as  they  scudded 
before  the  south  wind. 

She  reached  and  clasped  Stirling's  arm.  "The 
sun!"  she  exclaimed.  "See,  our  beacon!  We  shall 
win  through  to  open  sea!" 

Stirling  brought  the  wheel  up  and  steadied  it, 
smiling  down  into  the  girl's  glowing  face.  She 
watched  him  as  he  braced  his  legs  and  threw  back 
his  head,  then  he  turned  away  from  her  with  a  re- 
gretful jerk  and  leaned  down  over  the  binnacle.  He 
straightened  up  again  as  she  quoted : 

"The  sanguine  sunrise  with  his  meteor  eyes 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread. 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack 
When  the  morning  star  shines  dead." 

"The  morning  star,"  Stirling  said.  "It's  up 
there!"  He  pointed  toward  the  zenith,  and  Helen 
Marr  followed  the  direction  of  his  steady  arm,  widen- 


THROUGH  THE  DRIVING  SNOW     275 

ing  her  eyes  in  amazement  as  she  noted  the  lodestar 
almost  overhead.  She  waited  for  a  cloud  to  pass  and 
traced  out  the  light  points  of  the  Great  Dipper.  She 
saw  then  that  what  she  had  taken  for  overhead  was 
fourteen  or  fifteen  degrees  from  the  true  vertical 
line. 

"We're  in  about  seventy-six  degrees,"  she  said, 
with  certainty.  "Almost  to  the  Pole!" 

Stirling  unclasped  one  hand  from  the  spokes  of 
the  wheel  and  touched  the  frosted  glass  over  the  bin- 
nacle compass.  "Run  your  eyes  along  the  south 
line  and  you'll  be  looking  toward  the  Pole.  It's  a 
long  way  down  there,  Miss  Marr.  We're  trying  to 
work  in  the  other  direction." 

The  ship  had  covered  the  worst  of  the  passage  and 
the  parting  floes  showed  the  road  to  open  sea.  Stir- 
ling had  made  no  mark  of  time,  but  he  realized  dimly 
that  Slim  and  the  others  who  had  gone  below  were 
getting  the  utmost  out  of  the  boilers.  The  screw 
thrashed  at  its  best  speed,  and  the  smudge  of  smoke 
which  drifted  toward  the  north  blotted  out  the  view 
of  North  Devon  Island  along  which  the  course  had 
led  them. 

Stirling  breathed  for  the  first  time,  sure  of  himself. 
He  turned  and  smiled  at  Helen  Marr.  "Cape  Hay," 
he  said,  "is  somewhere  over  there!" 

The  girl  had  never  heard  of  Cape  Hay,  but  shield- 
ing herself  by  the  ice-coated  shrouds  of  the  mizzen 
rigging,  she  strained  her  eyes  toward  the  south  and 
east.  Clouds  showed  beneath  the  silver  reflection 


276  THE  ICE  PILOT 

of  the  moon,  and  a  darker  line  was  below  the  clouds. 
It  rose  in  one  point  to  a  headland. 

She  came  back  across  the  slippery  deck  and 
nodded.  "I  see  it,"  she  said  into  his  ear.  "It's  a 
long  way  off,  Mr.  Stirling." 

Stirling  smiled  and  nodded  toward  the  binnacle. 
"We're  on  the  course,"  he  said.  "How  about  a 
little  coffee,  Miss  Marr?" 

She  was  gone  across  the  quarter-deck  and  down 
the  cabin  companion  in  an  instant. 

Stirling  opened  two  buttons  of  his  pea-jacket  and 
drew  forth  his  great  silver  watch.  It  was  running, 
but  the  hours  which  had  passed  were  effaced  from  his 
memory.  He  had  stood  at  the  wheel  for  seven  tricks, 
but  the  distant  Cape  was  thirty  miles  away  through 
the  driving  snow.  The  wind  was  shifting  toward 
the  west  and  abeam,  and  he  knew  that  it  would  be 
nip  and  tuck  if  he  were  to  gain  the  open  waters  of 
Baffin  Bay. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

A   MATTER   OF   MINUTES 

THE  floes  through  which  Stirling  guided  the 
ship  became  larger  and  higher.  Old  "grand- 
pas" drifted  by — their  sides  honeycombed  by 
the  action  of  the  water.  These  floes  had  broken 
from  the  true  pack  and  had  come  south  through 
Smith  Sound.  Icebergs  were  to  be  expected,  since 
the  coast  of  Greenland  was  filled  with  glaciers.  Stir- 
ling peered  forward  and  searched  the  sea,  moment- 
arily expecting  to  glimpse  a  white  barrier  beyond 
which  he  could  not  go,  but  none  showed  as  the  watch 
lengthened. 

The  girl  appeared  with  a  steaming  can  of  black 
coffee,  and  also  biscuits  and  bread.  Stirling  set  the 
can  on  the  top  of  the  brass  binnacle  hood  and  munched 
a  biscuit,  eying  Helen  Marr  with  concern.  Dark 
circles  showed  upon  her  face,  her  lips  had  lost  some 
of  their  blood,  and  tiny  puckers  ran  from  the  corners 
of  her  mouth. 

He  moved  the  wheel  and  said  to  her,  "  Please  get 

somesleep.    You  look  tired,  Miss  Marr.    I'llholdon!" 

She  laughed,  drawing  close  her  deerskin  jacket, 

and  reaching  for  the  spokes.     "Let  me  steer?"  she 

asked.     "  It  isn't  so  bad  now.    I  can  hold  the  course." 

277 


278  THE  ICE  PILOT 

"  Keep  her  steady,  then ! "  said  Stirling  with  a  smile, 
releasing  the  spokes  and  staring  at  the  compass. 
"Steady,  she  is,  while  I  go  forward.  There's  a  lane  of 
open  water  ahead  somewhere.  We  must  find  it." 

She  nodded,  stared  at  the  binnacle,  and  the  spokes 
moved  slowly  and  in  the  right  direction  as  Stirling 
crossed  the  deck  and  descended  to  the  waist  of  the 
ship.  He  paused  a  moment  at  the  galley  house 
and  glanced  in.  Two  Russians  stood  by  the  stove, 
cooking  a  mess  for  the  engine-room  crew. 

Stirling  nodded  and  worked  his  way  forward  over 
the  icy  deck.  He  climbed  up  the  weather  shrouds 
and  out  and  over  the  cross  jack,  dropping  into  the 
crow's-nest. 

Floes  were  scattered  over  the  waters  of  Lancaster 
Sound  near  where  it  reached  Baffin  Bay.  The  wind 
had  driven  a  mass  of  ice  up  through  Prince  Regent 
Inlet,  and  its  reaching  fangs  threatened  to  dash  the 
ship  ashore  on  North  Devon  Island. 

Stirling  with  his  binoculars  swept  the  entire 
horizon.  The  wind  had  shifted  a  point  over  the 
hour,  and  now  came  from  over  the  high  plateau  of 
Baffin  Land,  as  it  circled  to  the  magnetic  north  and 
the  true  west.  This  would  close  Lancaster  Sound 
so  that  no  ship  could  drive  a  passage  through. 

Reaching  forward,  Stirling  rested  his  elbows  upon 
the  edge  of  the  crow's-nest  and  strained  his  eyes 
toward  the  opening  which  showed  in  the  direction  of 
Cape  Hay  and  Baffin  Bay.  It  was  partly  choked 
with  ice,  and  a  low  berg  loomed  in  the  haze. 


A  MATTER  OF  MINUTES  279 

Turning,  Stirling  called  down  to  Helen  Marr,  and 
the  order  he  gave  was  to  put  the  wheel  up  and  then 
steady  it.  The  new  course  was  more  toward  the 
true  south  than  the  east,  and  was  calculated  to  head 
off  the  reaching  arm  of  ice  which  threatened  to  close 
Lancaster  Sound. 

After  a  last  glance  over  the  wild  waste  of  waters 
and  snow-mantled  lands,  Stirling  swung  out  of  the 
crow's-nest  and  started  toward  the  deck.  Icicles 
and  frozen  patches  of  snow  fell  from  the  shrouds  as 
the  ship  swerved  and  steadied  on  the  given  course. 
Stirling  saw  that  the  girl  had  avoided  a  floe  by  a 
skillful  lift  of  the  wheel. 

This  fact  cheered  him.  He  had  a  companion  who 
was  doing  her  best,  a  true  friend  to  a  sailorman  who 
had  broken  through  to  a  desperate  sea.  He  went 
down  the  remainder  of  the  shrouds  and  over  the 
deck  with  his  head  lowered  in  thought.  The  chance 
to  save  the  ship  was  slight,  and  it  would  call  for  all  his 
cunning  in  ice  work.  The  fangs  were  being  bared  for 
the  final  nip.  Already  the  floes  had  thickened  ahead. 

"I'll  take  the  wheel,"  he  said  as  he  stepped  to  her 
side.  "You  go  below  for  an  hour.  Then  I  shall 
call  you." 

"Is  there  any  danger?" 

"We'll  either  be  nipped  within  two  hours,  or  we 
will  gain  the  Northeast  Passage.  Baffin  Bay  lies 
ahead!" 

"Then  I'll  stay  on  deck!"  declared  the  girl.  "I'll 
stay  right  by  your  side!" 


28o  THE  ICE  PILOT 

Stirling  took  the  wheel  and  set  the  course  a  point 
more  toward  the  south.  He  was  between  the  al- 
ternative of  striking  directly  toward  the  swinging 
arm  of  ice  which  was  closing  the  sound  like  a  door, 
or  seeking  a  narrow  passage  between  the  giant  field 
and  the  forbidding  coast  near  Cape  Hay.  He  chose 
the  latter. 

The  hour  that  followed  drove  the  spike  of  fear 
into  the  Russians'  hearts.  The  engine-room  crew, 
led  by  Slim,  left  the  fires  in  order  to  peer  through 
the  companion,  and  were  forced  back  by  the  menace 
in  Stirling's  voice. 

The  ship  met  the  giant  floes,  backed,  reeled,  and 
drove  on,  threading  through  the  new  ice  and  gaining 
open  patches  of  water  which  closed  behind.  Bergs 
drifted  down  upon  them,  but  Stirling  avoided  the 
shelving  spires  and  worked  toward  the  south  and  east. 

Snow  flurries  blotted  out  all  view;  the  wind  swung 
from  the  true  west  to  the  north,  and  held  in  its  grip 
the  icy  cold  of  winter.  It  struck  through  the  girl's 
furs  and  chilled  her  body,  as  she  walked  back  and 
forth  along  the  quarter-deck  watching  Stirling,  who 
seemed  possessed  with  a  Viking's  rage  at  the  ele- 
ments gathered  about.  His  one  aim  was  to  guide 
the  ship  between  the  Cape  and  the  ice  field.  Open 
water  still  showed  ahead  of  this  narrow  passage. 

The  Pole  Star  swirled  in  the  current  and  ran  down 
the  wind  which  was  now  abeam.  A  leaden  pall 
crept  over  the  surface  of  the  watery  world,  and  the 
ice  floes  ground  against  the  skin  of  the  ship  and  ob- 


A  MATTER  OF  MINUTES  281 

structed  the  way.  Stirling  shaded  his  eyes  from  the 
snow  and  peered  forward.  The  ice  had  gathered 
upon  the  spokes  of  the  wheel,  and  a  sleet  drove  from 
aft  to  forward. 

Gripped  by  the  majesty  of  their  danger,  the  girl 
watched  Stirling  and  prayed  for  deliverance.  She 
knew  that  the  reaching  arm  had  overtaken  the  driv- 
ing ship.  It  was  a  matter  of  minutes  now  whether 
they  would  gain  the  waters  of  Baffin  Bay  or  be 
crushed  between  the  floes  and  the  rocky  headland. 
A  single  screw's  turn  might  decide  the  matter. 

The  ship  staggered  and  swerved;  a  crash  sounded 
as  the  sharp  stem  mounted  a  floe.  The  world 
seemed  to  the  girl  to  spin,  as  Stirling  reached  down- 
ward, grasped  the  spokes,  and  lifted  the  wheel  so 
that  the  staggering  ship  could  turn  from  the  land. 
He  sheered  in  the  moment  of  time,  and  the  spars 
grated  along  the  overhang  of  basalt. 

Suddenly  Stirling  stiffened  and  rapidly  twirled 
the  wheel,  leaned  far  over  the  spokes,  and  watched 
the  waters  ahead  of  the  Pole  Star.  A  rift  showed 
through  the  floes,  and  toward  this  he  steered.  The 
last  of  the  reaching  ice  sprang  landward,  leaped  the 
distance,  and  drove  its  teeth  toward  the  ship.  It 
missed  by  a  scant  cable's  length,  and  the  crash  and 
reverberation  as  this  ice  was  dashed  upon  the  shore 
woke  Helen  Marr  from  her  prayers.  She  staggered 
to  her  feet,  and  stood  swaying  on  the  slippery  deck. 
Stirling  had  swung  and  was  staring  at  her,  his  strong 
face  covered  with  a  broad  smile. 


282  THE  ICE  PILOT 

He  turned  the  spokes  by  instinct  as  he  continued 
to  look  at  her.  "Look,"  he  said,  pointing  a  steady 
finger  aft.  "Look,  Miss  Marr!" 

She  wheeled  and  looked  over  the  taffrail  of  the 
Pole  Star.  Ice,  piled  upon  ice,  blocked  the  passage 
through  which  they  had  come.  The  roar  of  the  great 
North  pack  was  like  a  baffled  horde  held  at  bay.  The 
ship  plunged  on  and  out  into  open  water. 

"Where  are  we?"  she  asked,  pressing  a  hand  to 
her  forehead.  "Where  are  we,  Mr.  Stirling?" 

The  Ice  Pilot  smiled,  swung,  steadied  the  wheel, 
and  motioned  over  the  wild  world  of  tossing  waves. 
"That's  Baffin  Bay!"  he  said.  "We  have  made 
the  Northeast  Passage!" 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

ACROSS   THE    CABIN 

HELEN  MARR  glided  to  the  canvas  rail  that 
overlooked  the  waist  of  the  Pole  Star, 
brushed  the  hair  from  her  face,  and  wrung 
the  water  from  her  mittens. 

Then  she  turned  to  Stirling  with  a  high  toss  of  her 
chin.  "Are  you  going  across?"  she  asked. 

"To  Greenland,  miss." 

"But  why  not  south  and — home?" 

Stirling  moved  the  wheel  a  spoke  and  blocked 
it  with  his  knee,  pointing  toward  the  shores  of 
Baffin  Land. 

The  girl  cried  aloud  as  she  saw  the  reason  for  the 
Ice  Pilot's  course.  Ice  backed  by  more  ice  was  rush- 
ing northward;  winter  had  arrived,  and  new  floes 
and  bergs  were  forming  in  the  west.  There  was  no 
route  to  the  southward,  and  the  ship  held  the  only 
open  lane. 

"Greenland,"  she  said  with  hesitancy.  "But 
Greenland  is  as  wild  as  that  coast."  She  pointed 
over  the  Pole  Star's  quarter. 

Stirling  smiled  and  removed  his  knee  from  the 
wheel.  He  changed  the  course  more  to  the  true 
north,  and  the  ship  plunged  on  as  Slim  and  the  Rus- 

383 


284  THE  ICE  PILOT 

sians  realized  that  they  had  escaped  from  the  white 
jaws  of  an  icy  death. 

"Greenland,"  said  Stirling,  "is  Heaven  com- 
pared to  Baffin  Land.  You  shall  see." 

The  girl  hesitated  and  glanced  at  Stirling,  who  was 
consulting  the  binnacle,  reaching  an  arm  through 
the  spokes  of  the  wheel  and  wiping  the  glass  with  his 
bare  fingers.  A  tiny  light  showed  over  the  com- 
pass as  the  wheel  moved  with  a  slow  lifting  of  the 
starboard  rope. 

The  ship  steadied,  a  halo  of  smoke  and  flame 
crowning  the  single  funnel.  Slim,  the  Frisco  dock 
rat,  was  redeeming  himself,  and  his  voice  rolled  up 
through  the  ventilators  as  he  urged  the  Russians 
in  the  stokehold  to  renewed  efforts. 

Stirling  partly  turned  his  face  and  watched  the  girl, 
who  soon  was  gone  over  the  quarter-deck  with  a  faint 
nod  backward.  The  closing  companion  slide  told 
Stirling  that  she  had  been  slightly  offended  by  his  pre- 
occupied manner,  and  wondered  at  this  as  he  stared 
with  unseeing  eyes  out  over  the  waters  of  Baffin  Bay. 

Hour  after  hour  he  guided  the  ship,  a  lone  figure 
wrapped  in  thought  and  retrospection.  He  knew 
nothing  of  women;  he  felt  that  Helen  Marr  was  as 
remote  as  the  stars  above  him,  and  he  had  grown 
to  look  upon  her  as  a  companion — that  was  all.  He 
feared  to  trust  his  mind  to  go  more  deeply  into  the 
matter. 

The  course  he  had  chosen  revealed  the  hand  of  a 
isuper-pilot.  The  grinding  floes  to  leeward  were 


ACROSS  THE  CABIN  285 

blown  by  the  wind  in  such  a  manner  as  to  leave  an 
open  lane  between  them  and  the  pack  which  was 
rushing  to  fill  the  Bay.  The  last  days  of  the  open 
season  had  arrived;  a  week,  at  the  most,  would  see 
the  water  frozen  over  and  cemented  into  an  icy  lock 
which  would  hold  until  the  next  July. 

There  was  a  limit  to  his  endurance — strong  man 
as  he  was.  A  swerve  of  the  ship — the  running  off  a 
full  point — brought  the  truth  home  to  him  that  he 
had  been  asleep.  He  woke  and  gathered  himself 
together  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders,  only  soon 
to  doze  again.  The  ship  went  off  the  course,  crashed 
against  a  drifting  floe,  and  a  Russian  called  a  warning 
from  the  forepeak. 

Stirling  stiffened  and  twirled  the  spokes  in  time  to 
avoid  an  ice  island  of  an  acre's  extent.  He  stared 
upward,  as  if  in  the  heavens  would  be  found  in- 
spiration, and  the  haze  of  sky  and  snow  and  whirling 
sleet  allowed  the  faint  light  of  the  sun  to  penetrate 
its  veil.  He  calculated  the  sun's  position,  and  drew 
out  his  watch,  remembering  the  drift  of  the  currents 
in  Baffin  Bay.  It  might  be  necessary  to  take  a 
lunar  or  solar  observation  before  he  reached  the 
Greenland  shore,  which  was  more  than  a  day's  steam- 
ing to  the  eastward. 

Grimly  Stirling  blocked  the  wheel,  replaced  his 
watch,  rose  on  tiptoes,  and  called  the  Russian  from 
the  forepeak.  Fortunately,  this  lookout  had  some 
slight  knowledge  of  steering.  He  climbed  the  steps 
on  the  leeward  side  and  touched  his  cap. 


286  THE  ICE  PILOT 

Stirling  pointed  at  the  binnacle.  "Keep  that 
course,"  he  said.  "Do  you  understand?" 

The  Russian  grinned  and  grasped  the  spokes  of 
the  wheel.  Stirling  stepped  back  a  foot  or  more 
and  watched  the  jib  boom  of  the  ship  as  it  hung 
steady  above  the  dark  waters,  then  staggered  toward 
the  cabin  companion.  Down  this  he  went,  paused 
irresolutely  in  the  light  which  streamed  from  the 
deck  cluster,  then  pitched  across  a  divan  which  was 
between  two  closed  portholes,  and  sank  into  the 
deepest  slumber  of  his  life. 

He  awoke  as  if  his  sleep  had  been  but  a  moment. 
Every  limb  ached.  He  glanced  upward  and  saw 
Helen  Marr  standing  over  him,  her  expression  intent 
and  compassionate.  She  opened  her  lips,  but  did 
not  speak,  and  her  eyes  travelled  over  Stirling's 
features,  then  swung  toward  the  table.  A  steaming 
pot  of  coffee  stood  there,  and  beside  it  were  biscuits 
and  potted  beef. 

Stirling  staggered  to  his  feet  and  felt  around  with 
his  hands.  His  coat  had  been  removed  while  he 
slept;  a  pillow  lay  where  his  head  had  been,  and  the 
divan  was  partly  covered  with  a  Navaho  blanket. 

He  realized  that  she  had  covered  him  up,  and  he 
appreciated,  too,  her  thoughtful  attention  in  keeping 
warm  the  coffee. 

Stirling  stepped  to  the  table  and  turned.  "Thank 
you,"  he  said. 

She  smiled  with  comradeship  and  came  across  the 
cabin.  "I've  been  on  deck,"  said  she,  pointing 


ACROSS  THE  CABIN  287 

toward  the  cabin  companion.  "The  sun  is  on  the 
ice,  and  the  Russian  is  still  holding  the  course  you 
gave  him." 

Stirling  looked  at  his  pocket;  he  had  slept  thirteen 
hours.  Soon  he  began  to  eat,  now  and  then  glancing 
at  the  girl  by  his  side.  He  finished  without  words 
and  entered  Marr's  cabin.  When  he  emerged,  ten 
minutes  later,  his  chin  was  clean  shaven  and  his  hair 
parted. 

He  crammed  some  tobacco  into  a  cord-wrapped 
pipe,  found  his  cap  and  coat,  and  turned  toward  her 
as  he  placed  one  foot  on  the  steps  leading  to  the 
cabin  companion.  "Are  you  coming  up?"  he  asked. 

"Do  you  want  me  to?" 

Stirling  smiled.  "You're  my  first  mate,"  he  said. 
"You  and  I  shall  finish  the  passage  to  Greenland. 
We  should  reach  Upernivik  by  midnight." 

"Is  that  a  port?"  Her  voice  had  taken  on  new 
strength  as  she  watched  him. 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "About  the  only  place  we 
can  safely  winter.  Are  you  sorry  I  didn't  try  for 
Davis  Strait  and  the  North  Atlantic?" 

"You  knew  best,"  she  declared,  turning  away 
from  his  level  glance.  "I  shall  be  on  deck  in  ten 
minutes,"  she  added,  softly. 

Stirling  thrust  his  head  and  shoulders  above  the 
cabin  companion  and  studied  the  scene  on  the  deck. 
The  Russian  drowsed  at  the  wheel,  with  his  body 
leaning  over  the  spokes;  the  funnel  was  still  mantled 
with  a  rolling  cloud  of  smoke;  two  of  the  revolu- 


288  THE  ICE  PILOT 

tionists  stood  forward  by  the  break  of  the  forecastle 
peak,  keeping  watch. 

Crossing  the  icy  planks,  Stirling  touched  the 
Russian  on  the  shoulder  and  motioned  for  him  to  go 
forward  and  get  some  sleep.  Stirling's  smile  was  so 
contagious  that  the  Russian  thrust  out  his  hand  im- 
pulsively, and  Stirling  grasped  it  with  fervour. 

He  looked  at  the  binnacle  and  then  swept  the  sea, 
his  eyes  widening  in  calculation.  The  lane  of  open 
water  stretched  east  and  west  across  Baffin  Bay. 
South,  by  the  glint  on  the  horizon  haze,  ice  was 
gathered  for  the  closing  in  of  winter.  Northward, 
bergs  and  floes  showed,  marshalled  in  squadrons  and 
companies  like  soldiers  preparing  for  a  charge.  The 
sky,  seen  through  the  falling  snow,  was  leaden. 

With  some  slight  trepidation,  Stirling  awaited  the 
coming  of  Helen  Marr.  She  had  acted  strangely  of 
late.  They  were  to  be  thrown  together  during  the 
ten  months  of  winter  at  Upernivik;  there  would  be 
no  possible  escape  to  a  more  civilized  community. 

Slim,  the  Frisco  dock  rat,  appeared  at  the  railing  of 
the  engine-room  companion.  He  emerged  to  the 
deck  and  walked  aft,  his  face  grimy.  Up  the  quar- 
ter-deck steps  he  came — on  the  leeward  side,  out  of 
deference  to  Stirling. 

Slim  glanced  forward,  and  swung  his  head  as  he 
reached  the  wheel.  " Thought  I 'd  sort  of  apologize," 
he  said,  thrusting  out  his  hand.  "I'm  with  you  all 
the  way  now  for  what  you  did." 

Stirling  released  .his  hand  from  the  spokes  and 


ACROSS  THE  CABIN  289 

clasped  the  dock  rat's  fingers.  "  Keep  up  steam  the 
way  you  have  and  I've  no  kick  coming,"  said  the 
Ice  Pilot.  "We  should  reach  winter  quarters  by 
midnight." 

Slim  went  forward  and  disappeared  down  the 
engine-room  companion.  The  Russians  on  the  fore- 
castle head,  who  had  seen  the  attitude  of  the  two 
men,  raised  their  arms  and  waved,  then  turned  to. 
faithful  duty  as  lookouts.  Peace  had  settled  on  the 
former  poacher. 

Stirling  studied  the  back  of  one  of  these  Russians 
as  he  waited  for  Helen  Marr  to  appear.  Ivan,  he 
was  called.  It  was  Ivan,  of  the  Russians  from  the 
province  of  the  Don  Cossacks,  who  had  stood  the 
long  trick  while  Stirling  slept.  The  Ice  Pilot  made 
a  note  of  this. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

THE    CALLING    BEACON 

THE   companion    slide   opened   suddenly  and 
Helen   Marr  emerged  from   the  cabin.     She 
stood  in  furs  and  close-drawn  cap  as  Stirling 
swung  the  wheel  and  looked  at  her.     She  surveyed 
the  wild  waste  of  dark  waters  with  a  thoughtful 
pucker  on  her  brow  before  she  came  to  his  side.  Then 
her  eyes  lifted  to  the  faint  light  which  streamed 
from  the  leaden  vault  of  heaven.    The  sun  was  rim- 
ming the  horizon  behind  the  veil  of  mist. 

For  hours  the  two  stood  side  by  side,  Stirling  keep- 
ing the  course  with  easy  movements.  The  ship 
threaded  in  and  out  of  small  ice  floes  which  were 
gathering  by  mutual  attraction. 

There  was  the  smell  of  land  in  the  air.  The  seals 
sported  and  dived  before  the  dark  form  of  the  on- 
rushing  ship,  and  walrus  and  killer  whales  appeared 
within  the  lane  of  water.  Birds  wheeled  and  circled 
the  frosted  spars  that  moved  through  the  mist. 

Stirling  sensed  that  they  were  nearing  the  shores 
of  Greenland.  He  rose  on  tiptoe  and  peered  ahead, 
where  a  darker  mass,  broken  here  and  there  by  ice 
fields,  came  out  of  the  haze.  It  was  indented  by 
fiords  and  inlets. 

290 


THE  CALLING  BEACON  291 

He  turned  to  the  girl.  "No  chance  to  take  an 
observation,"  he  said.  "We're  going  to  run  a  bit 
down  the  coast.  I  think  I  can  make  the  headland 
at  Upernivik.  There  should  be  lights  there." 

She  nodded  her  head  and  fastened  upon  him  the 
fine  glance  of  a  comrade  to  a  comrade.  "I'll  steer," 
she  suggested,  holding  out  her  hands. 

Stirling  shook  his  head  slowly,  leaned  away  from 
her,  and  bent  over  the  binnacle,  then  changed  the 
course  of  the  Pole  Star  until  the  dark  coast  was  over 
the  port  bow.  Holding  this  course,  he  waited  and 
strained  his  eyes  for  some  sign  of  light. 

He  heard  the  beat  of  waves  within  the  coves,  a 
glacier  separated,  and  the  sound  of  the  falling  berg 
thundered  far  out  to  sea.  The  ship  rocked  and 
trembled  in  the  swiftly  running  waves;  then  it  stead- 
ied and  crept  closer  to  land.  They  glided  like  a 
dream  thing  in  the  shadow  of  a  haven.  An  opal 
citadel  took  the  place  of  the  leaden  vault,  as  the 
moon  rose  in  the  south  and  east  and  bathed  the  fast- 
flying  clouds  with  a  pale,  unreal  light.  Through 
these  clouds  white  stars  shone  and  twinkled. 

"We're  near  Upernivik!"  said  Stirling  as  midnight 
approached.  "  Keep  a  sharp  lookout  for  lights,  Miss 
Marr." 

His  voice  troubled  her,  and  his  use  of  the  "Miss 
Marr"  instead  of  a  more  familiar  name  caused  her  to 
creep  closer  to  the  wheel. 

"What  are  we  going  to  do?"  she  asked,  vaguely. 

"Winter  at  Upernivik  and  go  out  in  the  spring." 


292  THE  ICE  PILOT 

"But  won't  that  be  many  long  months?" 

"Nine  or  ten,"  said  Stirling,  rubbing  his  eyes 
with  the  back  of  his  right  hand  and  turning  toward 
her.  "There  is  nothing  else  to  do,"  he  added.  "  We 
can  save  the  ship  that  way.  The  Pole  Star  belongs 
to  you — now." 

A  flush  swept  over  her  cheeks,  and  she  reached  up 
her  mittened  hands,  brushing  her  hair  back  from 
her  ears.  "Let  the  Russian  steer,"  she  suggested. 
"Let  him  steer  and  you  and  I  can  talk  by  the  rail." 

Stirling  noted  the  course,  then  called  forward. 
Ivan  turned  and  hurried  aft,  coming  over  the  break 
of  the  quarter-deck  with  his  hand  on  his  cap. 

"Steady,  as  she  is,"  said  Stirling,  releasing  the 
spokes.  "Watch  for  lights  ashore.  Upernivik — 
you  understand?" 

The  Russian  nodded.  Helen  Marr  and  the  Ice 
Pilot  moved  aft  and  stood  by  the  taffrail  as  the  ship 
glided  on  with  its  jib  boom  parallel  to  the  sombre 
Greenland  shore. 

The  girl  turned  her  face  away  from  Stirling's  and 
looked  over  the  taffrail  where  the  silver  phosphores- 
cence of  the  wake  was  broken  in  countless  places 
by  the  reaching  waves.  The  moon  had  emerged 
from  the  clouds,  and  it  scudded  along  as  if  driven  by 
silver  sails,  its  rays  illuminating  the  quarter-deck. 

Stirling  felt  strangely  troubled  in  the  presence 
of  the  silent  girl.  He  stepped  back  a  foot,  then 
came  forward  with  the  roll  of  the  ship,  as  her  hand 
reached  out  and  rested  upon  the  taffrail. 


THE  CALLING  BEACON  293 

Through  the  citadel  the  Pole  Star  glided  under  half 
steam.  A  faint  roar  of  running  waters  came  from  the 
shore,  and  there  was  the  echoing  of  waves  on  the 
shelving  beaches.  The  headland  toward  which  the 
ship  steered  was  rounded,  and  beyond,  like  a  jewel 
in  a  locket,  glistened  a  sapphire  light. 

"Upernivik!"  said  Stirling. 

The  girl  nodded  her  head,  turning  away  from  the 
land  and  staring  at  the  surface  of  Baffin  Bay.  Then 
her  eyes  fastened  upon  Stirling's  and  in  them  he  read 
the  secret  of  her  silence.  He  flushed  and  raised  his 
hand  to  his  smooth-shaven  chin,  then  lowered  it  and 
reached  forward  timidly. 

"Look!"  she  said,  suddenly. 

Stirling  stiffened  his  arm  and  turned.  He  saw  the 
spire  of  a  little  church  on  the  beach  in  the  cove, 
where  it  showed  against  the  snow  of  the  hillside  like 
a  calling  beacon. 

"Starboard  half  a  point,"  said  Stirling  to  the 
wheelsman. 

The  Russian  swung  the  wheel,  and  the  girl  still 
stared  at  the  glistening  spire,  parting  her  lips  to 
whisper: 

"A  house  of  worship — a  church." 

Stirling  thrust  out  his  hand  and  covered  her  fingers 
where  they  rested  on  the  rail  of  the  ship.  She 
allowed  them  to  remain  there,  and  a  glad  warmth 
mingled  and  surged  through  their  bodies. 

The  ship  plowed  on  within  the  land  ice  which 
crunched  under  the  sharp  bow.  Stirling  glanced 


294  THE  ICE  PILOT 

upward  and  saw  the  white  spire  against  the  dark 
clouds  which  had  been  driven  across  the  snowy 
mountains  of  Greenland. 

Then  he  clasped  the  girl's  fingers  as  he  drew  her 
to  him,  and  he  felt  her  heated  breath  when  their  lips 
met. 


THE    END 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


A     000  046  229     1 


